


A Bouquet of Lies

by Loushia



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Character Death, F/F, F/M, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, OC is Percy Jackson, OC was born into Percy Jackson's body, Percy Jackson is a Mess, Percy is a good big brother figure, War, technically OC/Nico
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-03-04 21:43:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18821314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loushia/pseuds/Loushia
Summary: Mom reached into the baby blue painted crib with her abnormally large arms relative to my small body, and picked me up right to her chest. I could hear the soft and steady pounding of her heartbeat as she announced my name. “My little Percy. Percy Jackson.”...Aka, I was born into the body of Perseus Jackson. Fml....I've gotten a few messages questioning who this new trans character is... no. The OC!Percy is a cis male. Him/His pronouns, got male typical genitals, confidently knows his gender expression. He's just hella gay.





	1. Ocean Deep

**Author's Note:**

> This is also posted on fanfiction.net under my other username, Loopholes47. Other works (Naruto, HunterXHunter, ATLA, Fruits Basket) are also on ff.net. Please enjoy!

I started remembering at four months. The haziness lifted gradually from my vision until I could recognize sights as normal. The dark brown blobs in my general vicinity turned into chairs and tables and the greens faded into crisp outlines of individual blades of grass with morning dew still stuck on the tips and the blues turned into the toys and trinkets mom brought home from her job at the aquarium. I enjoyed playing with those toys the most, because whenever I picked up a plastic dolphin or turtle, a little voice in my head grew louder and louder until it felt as though someone was telling me stories about the great creatures of the sea. My mom’s smile became the center of my attention, and I always dragged small hands over her face to memorize every line, dimple, curve, everything.

As the days trickled into weeks and months and my sleep schedule stabilized into something more normal, at six months old a clarity hit me so hard that I was disoriented for the next few hours. When I came to, I saw mom looking down into what I believed was my crib.

“Mama,” I crooned at the woman who was the light, the shining beacon, a smiling fixture that was my warmth. She lit up in the way she did all the time whenever I said that.

“Hey baby,” she said softly, running hands into the thick clump of hair that almost ran into my line of vision.

“My name?” Words were difficult to enunciate in a chubby and stiff tongue, but I made do. However, something so innocent of a question made something inside me churn out painful signals like rusted clogs being forced to operate. This ominous foreboding sent a chill down my spine, but it was ignored, because I was just a baby, nothing could hurt me, nothing would want to hurt me.

Mom reached into the baby blue painted crib with her abnormally large arms relative to my small body, and picked me up right to her chest. I could hear the soft and steady pounding of her heartbeat as she announced my name. “My little Percy. Percy Jackson.”

And that was the moment where my heart stopped beating.

It was terrifying, because suddenly I was forced to recall a previous life, one where I had gone by another name with a different family. The safety of just mom wasn’t there, because there had been an absent father, drunk mother, abusive siblings, and fear and coldness and the frigidity of fear and I don’t want to die no stop help me I’m drowning I’m drowning I’mdrowningdrowningdrowningdrowning…!

The gentle waves had become wilder and fiercer the farther out I swam. The deepness of the open and empty abyss haunted me, because it looked me right in the eye and there was nothing but the abyss and darkness and the absolute certainty that I would not survive the rest of the night. The saltiness burned my eyes and nose and ears and every crevice the water crawled into froze me. Rough scrapes of whatever was beneath my toes, flailing arms, the bitter cold of a lost soul.

A fear of the deep ocean.

Yes? No? Maybe?

Fuck.

Because now I was born into someone else’s body, Percy fucking Jackson, some chosen savior of the world that used to just be words on paper, maybe a world to dream about in some delusional preteen’s mind.

On that night when I was six months old, asking for my name, a part of me died. I don’t know if it that was a part of Percy or a part of me (just a cold, frozen, waterlogged body somewhere in the middle of the Pacific). But it didn’t matter in the moment because that was when I decided to fuck the rules of the Fates or whatever Percy was supposed to do according to the Prophecy, because I was going to make this life mine. Did I feel ashamed that this was just me cheating at a chance for a new beginning? Perhaps. But did I care? No. It wasn’t my fault that I reduced the real Perseus into some husk into the void, it was the cogs of the universe, of time and time of itself. Whatever deities out there might not have directly affected my soul to that length, but the aftereffects of the wave resulted in this new life I wasn’t just going to throw away for the sake of justice and morality. Fictional Percy Jackson had been a good, loyal person. He fought against monsters and tried to spread equality to all. Me? At best, I was morally flexible.

At seven months, I gargled weird noises and high-pitched whines to practice my speech. The inflexible organ in my mouth was such a pain, I would have given up on learning how to speak eons ago if I didn’t want to suffer in the boredom of “baby talk.” My vocabulary expanded past just “mama” into real fucking sentences over the next few months.

At nine months, I switched from aggressively crawling to stumbling around to walking and running and skipping. The joy of freedom of movement felt better than any shot of heroin or orgasm or five-star massage. Once I could walk and speak, I felt like I could climb to the top of the Empire State Building and command the universe with just my toddler babble. Pop tarts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Playtime and naptime everyday always. Also known as, flipping off all my enemies so hard that my middle finger disappeared up their ass to the point that I could see my finger from down their esophagus.

Okay, maybe not.

When I saw a small cameo of someone a TV show’s credits named “Tristan McLean,” I almost whooped in laughter and told mom to search up this actor.

And mom.

Mom.

Sally Jackson was a goddess by her own right. She was the epitome of perfection – more beautiful than Aphrodite, more perfect for motherhood that Hera, more brave than whatever god of war descended from Ares. She had dark brown hair that matched mine in intensity and thickness, with fluffiness and a hint of curls towards the bangs. Obviously Poseidon was doing his divine intervention for the first few years of my life, because we magically had an apartment in the price-crazy New York City with mom only going to work over the weekends (she carried me with her in a baby-wrap-scarf-thing) while paying a tremendous amount for my baby supplies and our combined human needs. To sum it up, I loved her. And she loved me. It was an awesome feeling.

At thirteen months, we went up to a beach in Montauk. The beach house mom rented was cool, in the spooky serial killer lair kind of way, but once we cleared the spider webs and gross icky material imbedded in the wall (still curious about what that was, no lie), it became livable. Homey. Nice. Better than looking out past the sands and seeing the dark, splashing waves that made me feel powerless.  
As a baby, adults usually rant about adult things to other adults, expecting the kids not having the mental capacity to remember or understand what they were talking about. I, however, was a rude exception to whatever private moment one Sally Jackson wanted to have.

She carried me to the edge of the pier on the empty beach because there wasn’t any avoiding an encounter with the ocean anyway because I was the son of the god of the sea but that didn’t mean I didn’t pretend that hiding in mom’s arms protected me from the helpless feeling that made me wish I hadn’t completed diaper training so early in the game. Nothing but a little boy against the whole, wide world.

“Hey Poseidon,” I heard her whisper, and I felt the need to scrunch up into a small ball and be unnoticeable. This was going to become a private conversation that I had no part in eavesdropping in. She spoke about her general life, welfare, my baby firsts, I was the best (if not peculiar) child for being so well-behaved, and I attempted to drone out the parts that I had no business listening to.  
When she finished talking, I heard the rocking of the mildly unsteady wooden pier, loud splashing, and sudden silence. The smell of salt and purity grew closer to my unsuspecting body until almost supernaturally, I responded to the stimulus.

Mom gently set me down by her side, allowing me the grace to turn to face a man with black hair and sea green eyes. He reached out to tenderly touch my cheek with his calloused hands. In my shock, I allowed him to touch my face. Was this? What? Dad? Poseidon? What?

“You’ve grown Perseus,” was all he said before dissipating into bubbles before my eyes. A strong stench of saltwater and kelp wafted over mom and I as I contemplated what had just happened in a manner of seconds.

For the next few days in Montauk, I played in the shallowest part of the water, still shrieking whenever a wave lapped up to the sands.

(Fun fact: minnows are absolute bitches. All they talk about are themselves)

Driving back to Manhattan, I peeked outside the window from what I could see from the angle of sitting in a booster seat, and saw the waves form a shaky hand waving goodbye that matched my own.

(In the driver’s seat, Sally has tears running down her cheeks to meet a smile)

At three years old, I was out playing in a park just outside the city (aka an hour car ride out), zooming between tree trunks, smelling sickly sweet honeysuckles, grabbing English Ivy and tearing it up with chubby sausage fingers. There was a narrow creek situated between the park benches and the bark chip playground, with a sturdy metal bridge connecting the two together. I took mom’s hand and guided her towards the bubbling and splashing water, telling her that I had found a special secret that shhhhh! nobody else can find out.

“What is it, Percy?” She asked, smoothing calloused fingers over the messy fluff that was my hair. 

“Mom, I think the water likes me!” I whisper-yelled into her ear, edging up for the eventual confrontation that I wanted with her. If it had been explained that Sally Jackson explained my heritage to me before going to Camp Half-Blood, then it wouldn’t at all be suspicious to be slightly more knowledgeable than the average demigod.

A small scrape on my palm from falling off the plastic slide stung with contact with the cool liquid, but the pain disappeared in a matter of seconds, along with the cut. The blood fizzled out of the wound, and the skin appeared to stitch itself back up.

Magical.

Yet dangerous, read mom’s expression.

With lightning quick speed, she grabbed my wrist and looked me square in the eye. The rapid movements frightened me, but I supposed she was even more frightened by the situation. Monsters were everywhere, waving in and out of the Mist, a barrier that even I couldn’t penetrate through yet. All but a helpless young demigod child and a mortal woman. I understood the gravity of what I had just revealed to the outside of my mindscape. Anyone could have seen - anything could have seen, something did see? Nobody had 360 degree vision, how could I tell that my domain was revealed to unwitting eyes? 

Mom shook my wrist like a dead fish, a fervor in her eyes that temporarily had me stuck in place. “Percy, Percy, don’t do that again.”

“You’re scaring me,” I choked out, hating the moment of stupidity and boredom that led to this moment.

She was unrelenting. “Promise me, Percy. Please.”

“Okay,” I replied in sniffles, definitely not crying. 

However, it was not the first time that the encapsulating water would leave my control. The more that I grew stronger and faster and better, the more a growling want to learn how to dominate the crashing recess of darkness that was thicker than syrup in the depravity that was me. Could I command the oceans, the sand, the creatures of the sea, the thick brine of the air? Power was all I felt some nights, when the sound of the sea filled my head till it metaphorically burst into rough crashes against my cranium. My eyes and nose burned with the scent of salt, sharp and tangy resonating across the thrashes of my bedroom, fighting against the blackness of the night sky reflecting through the small window across my bed. The blood of the Gods ran through my veins, and the sharp contrast of my previous body was as real as it could be when moments like this passed by. 

And as I aged, my scent only grew stronger.

And stronger.

And stronger.

When I was four years old, in the cramped and musty nursery room mom had placed me in so she could go back to work, contained a monster.

It was a small, pathetic little creature, only by happenstance it slithered into this nursery room and caught the direct scent of a child of the gods. The demon snake was only half the size of a gardener snake, but the miasma that oozed out of the brick red scales screamed evil. It inched closer to my napping spot, coiled up and loosened its jaw to attack, but I reacted faster. Soft, delicate hands grabbed the snake by its brightly colored midsection and squeezed. It hissed violently, almost loud enough to wake up the other children napping besides me. But I squeezed and squeezed until it stopped wriggling.

Dead.

A cold ambience rushed over my head. I was enchanted by the simplicity of this creature’s death, quicker and less painful than my own. The haunting miasma escaped the snake’s body and dispersed into powder that glinted in the balmy light of the nursery like wet saffron. The mild odor of the snake’s venom leaked out and hit my nose harder than any rush of cigarette smoke. This was how mom found me, grimacing with the remains of a squishy corpse just as nap time ended and parents had to pick us up. Her hands visibly shook as she made me dispose of the carcass and wash my hands.

I heard her mumble to herself in the car ride home that my scent was growing stronger, and this was terrible, terrible, terrible because I was technically too young to learn about my station and learn how to protect myself. 

Not too young, I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream and shout and kick and wail and cry because I understood exactly what was going on and I needed to get to the camp earlier because a recall of the Real Percy’s life had a bunch of children unnecessarily sacrifice their life for something so insignificant as a God being irresponsible enough to sire their breed into a wretched monster-filled world, laden with unforsaken demons. 

But I didn’t.

I didn’t because Sally Jackson meant the world to all the Percy Jacksons in the fucking universe, and just abandoning her for a half-baked quest with the body of a toddler would not suffice. No, she deserved the world, and I was her world (but I’m still drowning, drowningdrowningdrowning..!) 

Never could I be responsible enough to always take care of her, but for now, it was okay to live out a childhood. The guise of innocence. A happy beginning.

 

(A wretched ending)


	2. Vertigo

In a blink of an eye, the next two years passed by.  For the most part, life had been peaceful, ignoring the occasional moments when monsters came to lurk. There were days when mom and I went out into the city to run some kind of errand, but took a very deliberate detour to the destination. After the first three times this had happened, I began to realize the moments when she was finding ways to avoid a close proximity to the creatures hidden under the Mist. Her entire body would tense up, a worried expression would fall over her beautiful features, and she would slowly backtrack towards a different path.

What irked me the most about this was the fact that I couldn’t see through the Mist. I could only see the mental strain the nightmare-esque shades gave mom in the way that her face hardened throughout the months and years that I grew bigger, thus easier to find.

Mr. Ugliano walked into our cozy apartment near the Queensboro bridge a little before the winter break of 2nd Grade.

From what I could remember of my past (and what I could decipher from chicken-scratch dyslexic scrawls in a diary shoved deep under my bed), Gabe Ugliano was supposed to be a disgusting man, gross enough to hide a demigod’s scent. He seemed pleasant enough during the first dinner together, but his true nature gradually revealed itself to me the longer I got to know him. I wanted to curse the revolting man out of my home, but I knew that he supposedly protected a child of the Big Three so well, the Real Percy had only been actively pursued by monsters once puberty hit. But his stench was puke-worthy, I could be persuaded that Mr. Ugliano was secretly a woman with a horrid case of yeast infection.

However horrible the man was, mom was relieved of a tremendous amount of stress. She quit her job at the aquarium and started working at a candy store that was closer to home. As a clear-sighted mortal, her life was automatically more hectic than normal. Add a demigod child and pour a little bit of trashy husband and the result was a fuckton of new white hairs. Her youthful demeanor was still there, but I caught the glint of white in her lovely brown mane.

Anyway, school was a bitch. The nearby Emerald Academy for Elementary school students was a public school but still kind of weird in that it actually seemed invested in its students. I was tested for ADHD (didn’t have ADHD in my previous life, wow it feels terrible now) and some subset of dyslexia. However, I loved reading. Always had and always will. I had put visiting the library behind visiting playground and parks for quite a while now because me stupido like that, but I considered it high time that I took to discovering if I could enjoy books the same in Greek.

The first thing I did when visiting the Manhattan Library was zoom to the foreign part of the library and pick up the Greek version of _Harry Potter: The Philosopher’s Stone_.

Demigods’ brains were hardwired for Ancient Greek, not modern Greek. But the dialect preserved a great deal of the language, so it wasn’t too hard of a read. The transitions between the ancient and modern dialects were annoying, but not the end of the world. I was just pleased that I found a platform of language in which I could enjoy novels like the great majority of kids. It was funny to explain to the teachers at school that I was completely fluent in (Ancient) Greek despite having an obviously American parent and accent, but I supposed they thought that my biological dad taught me it before I entered school.

Partial truth?

After that little fact came out, the administration workers at Emerald Academy believed to have misdiagnosed my inability to decipher the English written word as dyslexia when they thought it was actually me only knowing how to read in Greek as a phony bilingual. But I really was dyslexic, so it sucked having to go through after-school classes about relearning English.

_I wasn’t illiterate I was fucking dyslexic._

That lasted until almost the end of third grade because that was when mom found that I had been staying after school an hour longer than I was supposed to.

“Percy, the bus was supposed to drop you off an hour ago! Do you know how worried I was when you weren’t home when I came back from work?” Mom said while frantically placing her hands all over my body to make sure I hadn’t garnered any injuries from whatever she thought had held me up.

“Doesn’t your shift end at 9 pm?” I deflected quietly, not wanting Mr. Ugliano to hear her mother-henning from where he was by the TV. Considering how small the apartment was, he probably heard her worrying her head off even from the other side of our home. I wasn’t embarrassed at having a loving mom, but I didn’t want there to ever be a moment when she was made fun of for loving her _only_ child.

“My manager let me leave early today because of our vacation we have scheduled. But you need to answer me, young man.”

Oh fuck, I forgot about Montauk.

I stuttered. “Sorry mom, but, but, it’s a… secret. Can I tell you later?”

She pursued her lips, but let me escape to my bedroom. This was only after bestowing a lung-crushing hug.

Well, I now had maybe half an hour tops to make something up.

At 6 o’clock on the dot, mom and I stuffed our bags into the trunk of her ancient white Subaru Forester. The thing had to be at least twenty years old, with an engine that kept spluttering every ten minutes or so. In the car was when she drilled me on what I had been doing that day.

“Do you always come home an hour later than you’re supposed to?”

Frick. “No, mom. It’s only been for the past few days. And, uhhh, I joined the arts and crafts club. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but it’s because there’s this really cool person there that I wanted to impress, but I thought it was embarrassing to tell you so - !”

I was cut off by her laughter. It was an intoxicating sound that drew me in like a bee to honey. The genuine laughter had been absent recently, and it lifted a weight off my shoulders I didn’t realize I had been carrying. Sad that it was for a fake reason, though. I really just kept going to the ESL lessons as long as possible because I hated the ambience of our apartment, where a gross, foreign barbarian was invading the humble abode it had been before his intrusion. And now that mom thought I was attending the arts and crafts after school club; I could continue to stay in the peaceful environment in the quieter New York neighborhood where the academy was situated.

“It’s okay sweetie,” she hummed gently, “you can continue arts and crafts club as long as I know where you are.”

Yes.

“And,” she continued, “you bring back your artwork for me. I want to see the masterpieces my son has been making behind my back!”

Fuck.

Now I had to actually join the club. It’s not like I hated the arts, but the most artsy thing I was capable of was doodling stick figures on the edges of work sheets.

***

We reached our beach house in Montauk by nine o’clock. The trails of light left by the moon and stars lit the resemblance of a pathway to the entrance of our rented house. ‘Bob says _Hello_ ,’ I thought, examining the dazzling artwork overhead. And then headed in, more than ready to fall asleep.

An hour later, I was still awake.

I felt something tossing and turning in my head, creating the greatest urge to take an entire bottle of Tylenol to drown out the hurling winds of the brain. Because that would be not only dangerous but also stupid, I instead crept outside to lay in the cool, damp sand right by the edge of the black void.

Icy water splashed against my toes, but the sensation wasn’t unpleasant. Cold waters never affected me as much as they had in the other body, where the cold had been everywhere, submerging the body whole as if it was being swallowed by a maw of a giant whale, darker and deader than the pits of hell, hundreds of hands clamping down hard on the ankles and dragging the body down, down, down…

I jolted upwards when the water splashed against my toes again, the coldness jolting me from head to toe (not the temperature, but pure, unadultered _fear_ ).

“I can swim,” I whispered to the void.

“I can fucking swim,” I whispered to myself and my past.

“I’m the son of the god of the sea, I’m not scared, I’m not scared, I’m not scared,” my grainy voice cracked out.

At that moment, faced with the unending chasm of salt water, my legs started to carry me forward, against the wishes of my thrashing heartbeat. The froth from the waves reached ankle-level, mid-calf, knees, then mid-thigh. Salty wetness rolled down my cheeks and I felt lightheaded because I couldn’t breathe. Then I could. Then I couldn’t. My throat tore open, then shut close in a ragged pattern until everything around me became the crashing of the waves, bubbles popping to the surface, plethora of voices screaming in my head to ‘ _get out of the water, it’s too dangerous, you’re going to drown, you’re going to die in this storm,_ ’ except it wasn’t storming and thundering, for all was quiet down in the void.

When I could no longer hold my breath, I gasped in – but stopped to gape at the view, for I had entered the void.

“I can breathe underwater,” I murmured, forgetting everything and anything.

Being suspended in the viscous atmosphere of marine life was dizzying, yet something my blood sung out for. It felt – no, it was natural to me, like I knew how to react in this domain better than I knew the back of my hand. In and out I breathed, but nothing choked up my lungs, nothing there except for freedom. I shivered, not knowing whether it was from my heightened senses or because an epitome was reached inside my soul.

I came to a conclusion on how to best face my fears. “My name is Perseus Jackson,” my voice wavered when nothing swam into my line of sight, but I strengthened that resolve, “and I am the son of Poseidon.”

Half a second later, a school of fish rushed over from my left to swim in circles around my suspended form.

“Hello, hello, hello, hello…!” They voiced, tinny noises sounding together in a gaggle of high-pitched whines.

A huge, looming shadow came in from my 3 o’clock. _A leatherback turtle._ Wait, how did I know what kind of turtle it was?

It swam with slow, heavy, deliberate strokes until it was only a few feet from my face. “Welcome home, Perseus,” Its voice groaned out, the deep vibrato resonating in my eardrums.

I paused. “Does my father know that I have entered his domain?”

The turtle seemed to telepathically communicate with me a death stare. Ah, right. He was the god of the seas, of course he would know if his own blood entered the ocean. “Little Perseus, your father knows everything that is happening in all seven seas. However, he is very busy dealing with the territorial dispute between the mermaids and saltwater naiads to offer any godly advice a demigod would want.”

I stuffed my hands in my shorts, not expecting for the turtle to give any kind of answer. But this information was kind of helpful. Don’t bother dad right now, alright.

“Y’know,” I started, “I didn’t really expect to see my dad immediately. I just wanted…”

To get over my irrational fear of the deep ocean.

“…wanted to explore a bit. Get to know my powers.”

It was the coolest shit that I was basically an overpowered waterbender. Kiss my ass, Katara. The ADHD and dyslexia bit were not cool, though.

When all Mr. Turtle did was stare back, I quickly added another comment. “So, uhhh, what’s your name?”

His response was clipped. “You may call me Kura Kura.”

“How’s… the weather?”

Fuckin’ shit, that was me. Whelp, that conversation died.

At that point, Kura Kura tipped his slick navy blue head down in what I presumed to be a bow. “I must take my leave now, little Perseus. If you ever need assistance from the sea, we are all here to help your arduous journey.”

That was the most graceful exit of an awkward conversation I had ever seen.

Just as Kura Kura was going to swim back to the deeper waters north, I shouted “wait!”

He paused, inclining his head to let me talk.

“Please don’t tell any of the other gods that my dad had me,” I hung my head, slightly regretting all my impulsive incidents that led me to apologizing.

The great leatherback turtle guffawed. “No need, for you are protected from the heavens and the sky down here. I must take my leave now. Farewell, demigod.”

I watched his silhouette grow smaller and smaller in the murkiness.

For the rest of the weekend in Montauk, I made epic sandcastles with mom, ate a bunch of candy she brought from her job, and assimilated into the icy depths.

***

At the start of 4th grade, I gained the reputation of being the hugest fucking nerd to ever grace the planet when my thrift store backpack broke in the middle of social studies class, revealing a waterfall of marine biology and equestrian care textbooks. Some of the weird kids tried inviting me into their friend group when gossip spread about how I liked horses (like a girl), but I declined them and attempted to go back to the kids I sat with during lunch time. Maybe because it was a public school in one of the meaner parts of Manhattan (still infinitely better than my neighborhood, to be honest), maybe I really was just a weirdo, but I ended being rejected by the groups of nine and ten year olds.

It hurt a lot more than I thought it would. Bullying, teasing, school meanness was a part of growing up, but even as a mental adult, the forced isolation triggered some frantic crying.

I didn’t cry after the first day, because I was stronger than that. Jacksons were tougher than nails.

The preferred way to beat the new loneliness was to hole up in the public library until it was closing time. Closing time was also coincidentally when mom’s shift ended, so she could walk home, get the car, and pick me up. It was ideal situation if I had to be honest, because I spent more time doing enjoyable things with books than with obnoxious kids. I made a few friends at the library in the form of old Mediterranean grandmas who taught me modern Greek better than accent-less, inflection-less books. 

A way to get over phobias, I had read, was constant exposure. First, through simple text, imagination, and words. Second, though pictures. Third, through a supervised sample test. Fourth, the real thing.

Naturally, being me, I went backwards.

By the end of the 4th grade, I could play in pools, look through picture books featuring the ocean, and enjoy the soothing pattern of the rhythmic crashing waves without suffering.

 

(Secretly, in the middle of the night, I wake up in a cold sweat from tormenting blackness)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this! I have the entire story outlined so far, and have completed the first few chapters of A Bouquet of Lies. Keep reading and please comment, kudo, bookmark!!!


	3. Benthesikyme

I was the oldest in my grade because my birthday fell on August 18th – the day right after the cut off for the year ahead, or at least in my precinct. A few months made a huge difference in terms of growth and development when talking about children’s bodies, so I noticed how I towered over all my peers at my height of exactly five foot zero.

Since I hadn’t been expelled for any reason from my school, unlike the Real Percy, my grade peers remained the same. The same ones that left me to die in a ditch.

Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but it still stung whenever I saw my lunch buddies laughing in the back of the classroom at the new Roblox update or whatever.

When 5th grade orientation ended, the kids and parents left to visit the classrooms they’d be spending the last of elementary school in, or went to sign up for Special classes. They were just two electives you had three times a week, but they didn’t call them electives for whatever reason. Mom and I waited in the ten-minute line to sign up for these, and the wait comprised solely of her mother-henning and fussing about how tall I was getting and how I was only five inches shorter than her now.

Completely shameless, I soaked it all up.

The head counselor had a haggard look in her eye by the time it was our turn to sign up, and the most popular Specials had already been filled to capacity. Which was fine, because then I didn’t have to take any more art classes and have Mr. Ugliano raise a hairless eyebrow at the weird dog/cat/horse/donkey looking animal paintings taped onto the refrigerator. I signed up for Latin and Mythology (totally intentional, you should’ve seen mom’s face), which were classes taught by the same teacher: Mr. Brunner.

_Fuckity fuck fuck on a slippery duck._

You have got to be kidding me.

Mom had to physically drag me out of the sign-up booth because I was frozen in place for what had to be at least a minute, staring endlessly at that name. _Mr. Brunner. Chiron._

So soon? It was only 5th grade. To my memory, Grover emerged into the Real Percy’s life in Grade 6, while Chiron and Mrs. Dodds came to his middle school sometime in the middle of the year.

_Please press F to pay respects._

I supposed that Grover had noticed my scent earlier than before from my constant passive techniques. As a pseudo waterbender, I printed out an entire pamphlet from a Tumblr post of hydrokinesis, atmokinesis, and geokinesis. (Basically stuff about learning how to move things in the elements.) The thick pamphlet was stuffed somewhere in the bottom of my backpack (bought extra-sturdy from a more expensive store to assure longevity), just in case if I had to refer to it to save a school bus from crashing into the lake and didn’t know what best plan of action there was.

Just in case.

The passive techniques were for my own safety, as training only made me stronger and more durable against monster fights. So far, only a few cyclops had stalked me on the way to school. I didn’t know if Poseidon had sent them to check up my progress, or if they were the evil kind. Hopefully the former. The techniques did not include any moving of large bodies of water, but simply honing my senses onto all available water sources, feeling the intense jets streaming throughout the piping, the sludge of the sewers underground, the distance and faint melody that surrounded the island. I constantly knew where the largest source of my domain was, knew the rush of power that invaded my blood.

During the orientation day, we were supposed to set our nametags on whatever table of our choosing. As soon as I set mine down (in the back row because then I could read books under the desk without the teacher seeing), a scrawny yet lithe figure erupted by my side and placed a nametag to the seat next to mine on the four-person table. He had a scraggly mane of brown curls, wide, fluttering eyes, and a pair of crutches locked tightly underneath each armpit.

This description matched one of Grover Underwood’s, according to the Real Percy’s memories. My stupid heart clambered in my chest- was it really him?

“Hi,” I said, holding my hand out to who I presumed to be the satyr. “I’m Percy.”

Mom had to leave ten minutes ago due to a sudden shift change at work, but I didn’t mind, because usually if teachers didn’t meet my mom then they assumed that I came from a Greek or Mediterranean family, explaining my fluency in the language and the in depth knowledge of the cultural aspects of Greek life. Well, maybe Ancient Greek life, not modern Greece, because the country was currently in a moratorium period. No thank you, bankruptcy.  

The falsely crippled boy held out a clammy hand to shake mine and stated, “Hi, I’m Grover. Is it alright if I sit here?” I bit back a smile.

Of course, pal.

“Yeah sure,” my brain went haywire with the sudden fast forward of what I knew about the plot. Seriously, why were Chiron and Grover here so early? Was it because my training had brought monsters, thus monster protectors, closer to me? Or was it for some plot-changing action I had brought upon them? Did Kura Kura or those minnows blab to a surface creature?

Was mom safe?

Gods, I hoped so.

The rest of the orientation passed in a blur, partly from the fact that I had been attending Emerald Academy for the past five years and already knew about the ins and outs of Grade Five from upperclassmen acquaintances, also partly because I was itching to escape with Grover and extort an ungodly amount of information from him.

It finally rang noon, and we were free to escape the clutches of doom (aka school). Grover and I had chatted a bit during the small breaks throughout the presentation in the front of the classroom, and I decided that I like him. He was obviously nervous while playing his character as some normal mortal ten-year-old when he was actually a fully-grown adult, but it passed off as just some random anxious tick.

“Hey Grover,” I said, jolting him from his seat. “Wanna come over for lunch at my place?”

Maybe it was weird to invite someone who was basically a random stranger over after knowing them for only half an hour, but that was alright. Grover was seeking out any cue to ingrain himself into my non-existent social circle, and I was willing to provide all opportunities. He was also a surefire way to communicate with Chiron, unbeknownst to both.

“S-Sure…!” He stuttered, swinging his backpack over a shoulder and clutched his crutches in a frantic manner.

Subtle.

He led us to a detour to the elective hall, where he said he had forgotten something in the Latin room. Which translated into: I need to tell Chiron that I’ll be with Percy for some time.

Fair enough. My protectors or whatever were doing their job just fine. Which reminded me, where were Grover and Chiron staying while they were occupied in Manhattan with me? Was there some bunker beneath the Empire State Building, or did they own an office in the Upper East Side for Camp Half Blood’s strawberry business?  Was there a faster way to commute from Long Island to the city? The normal commute would be maybe two hours, perhaps three hours if the traffic was particularly hellish on Queensboro.

Grover limped out of the Latin classroom, seemed relieved when he saw me still waiting for him, and thus began our walk back home.

“Grover, do you have any hobbies?” I asked, eager to acquaint myself with someone of a similar station to me, age-wise. He was an adult in a child’s body due to the satyr growth patterns, while I was an adult stuck in a child’s body due to some trick of irony.

_Or Fate. But that would be sucky because the Three Fates exist in this universe._

He muttered something while a huge cement truck crossed the road, then repeated himself louder. “Oh, I like to play flute and the pipes. You?”

I thought about it. “Eh. My mom thinks I like doing art, but that’s another story in of itself. I like reading, though. The library is basically my second home.”

“But aren’t you dyslexic?”

This boy was… not doing his job decently.

“How did you know that I'm dyslexic?”

At that, the satyr froze under my scrutiny and I light sweat broke out on his forehead. “You, uhhh… you and some friends I have have similar mannerisms. And since they have ADHD, I automatically assumed that… you do, too…?” He trailed off at the end.

Oh boy. Someone was going to have to work on his lying skills. Maybe this was why the other satyrs picked on him.

“That's a valid assumption, but I don't believe you.” We approached my apartment building after taking a shortcut in an alleyway. “But that's alright. Everyone has their secrets, no matter how big or powerful they may be.”

Grover backtracked into the garbage bin for my building. He spluttered in disgust, but good naturedly laughed it off.

At that, I fished for the keys in my jean pockets and welcomed Grover inside. His nose automatically crinkled with disgust.

I laughed. “Pardon the smell, that's my step-dad, Gabe Ugliano. He's the absolute worst at personal hygiene and health, but at least he brings in the cash to pay for our monstrously expensive rent in sweet ol’ New York City.”

Mom has saved up quite the sum in her bank account (they did not conjoin accounts when they married) after marrying the lard filled sloth. At least he was useful in terms of financial aid, with his management job at a popular hardware chain. The smell of oil and lube probably covered up his natural pungency, so kudos to that.

Grover visibly inflated at that news. “Oh, that's… nice.”

“What kind of meat do you want? I can make a ham or turkey sandwich.”

“Huh? Ah, turkey, thank you.”

Because he was the type of guy/satyr to be too polite to ask for seconds, even when hungry, I set to making four sandwiches total. Hey hey hey, I was a growing boy with a god's blood running through my veins.

After that, we joked around and made stupid hypotheses about how school was going to be this year. It was overall a fun time, something I didn't realize I had been missing until experiencing kidding around with friends again. He left at around three o'clock, promising to come back again if he was free. The stench obviously bothered his heightened senses, so I found myself making plans to hang out with him at another location. From what I remembered from the fictional counterpart from Before, Grover had always been a chill pal. If only Riordan had written more about his characters’ friendships.

Mr. Ugliano got home from work at 5:15 PM, mom got back at 9 PM, so I decided to go out to the library again.

All was serene in the scene of plastic chairs, the electric humming of the overcharged white ceiling lights, the musty smell of thousands of books, the environment of unbiased general knowledge covering every expanse of off-white and pale blue plaster walls. Because I would never completely “cure” my dyslexia, only learn how to memorize patterns of the English lexicon as the most probable in a sentence, I headed to the second floor east wing. I had made my home in the Greek/Yugoslavic literature and history section. Surprisingly, I had exhausted my options of modern Greek novels, so I turned to the surrounding Baltic area section to quench my thirst. I found the language incomprehensible, yes, but there were some books in English scattered here and there describing Southern Europe as a whole.

Speaking of, I was going to take Latin in school. As a Greek demigod, I wasn’t naturally hardwired for Roman stuff, but I would still be able to _maybe_ pick things up quicker than most mortals. After Hera dropped Percy into Camp Jupiter, he had said some kind of foul curse to an annoying ghost in Latin, that I remembered.

Oh gods, fucking Hera.

I resolved to not have my memory wiped clean by the Queen Mother because that would be awful to lose not only one mind, but two. A version of me that had dangerous memories of the future trickle back into memory before the reasons behind them would be a huge problem. My experience of knowing the books fully was what had kept me from causing trouble. No accidental piping bursts, no accidental drenching of bullies via nearby fountains, nope, zip, nada.

“Ah, Percy dear!” Exclaimed the voice of an old woman from behind the bean bag I was unceremoniously buried in.

I bent my neck in a weird angle to greet her. “Hi, γιαγιά!”

Mrs. Katerina was a doddering old lady pushing ninety-five years old, with floral dresses and cozy cardigans and cat hair scattered among her own white hairs. She insisted that I call her “grandma” in Greek when we first met in this section. She was honestly one of the loveliest people I had the pleasure of ever meeting, first life included.

“How’s your pronunciation, my little Perseus?”

And she also tended to make me speak in Greek (modern) when we got together.

“It’s perfect, γιαγιά, you said so yourself just last Wednesday.”

Mrs. Katerina swatted her hand as if to shush me. “Little Perseus, you are completely fluent in the dialects and accents of Southern Greece and the surrounding islets, but you are yet to master your mountainous northern regions.

I smiled at her mild scowl. “But the people who live near the Ionian and Aegean seas are the best people.”

“I’m not going to disagree with that,” she chuckled, sending me a humorous wink. “Would you like to hear a story about my hometown?”

The sudden jumping in my  seat gave her my answer.

“Okay, little one,” she began, diminutive elderly voice gaining color at the fond reflections. “On the island of Kea, I was just a lowly servant to the house master. In the sea regions, the color of your skin doesn’t matter too much, but your gender is an obvious divide. My mother was a tribal legend in Ethiopia, but she met a man in Greece that made her sire a child, me, in the country. She gave me a Greek name in an attempt to hide my African heritage, but I was still subjected to living in just a raft by my master’s great marbled home.”

This story was depressing, but filling up my inner history nerd. “In the twenties or thirties when this happened, didn’t Ethiopia suffer a coup d’état by the ruling family?”

The old woman thoughtfully rubbed her wrinkly chin. “Ah, yes, I suppose that did happen in one of the twenties.”

Hmm?

“When I was around your age, my father came back to Kea. When he found that my mother had abandoned me on the island to return to Ethiopia alone, he became furious at the treatment of me. He was a rather influential man of this time and of this area, you see, so my master released my contract into my father’s awaiting hands. He tossed the flimsy paper into the lapping waves of the blue-green waters, off the craggy limestone cliffside. It made me cry tears of happiness, in which my newly returned father touched my face and wiped away my tears. He told me that I would work under him now, and we were to immediately enter his domain.” And with that, she finished her story.

I wasn’t sure what else to say other than, “Where had your father been before your mother left you?”

Mrs. Katerina’s eyes were a striking turquoise against the aged, leathery brown of her skin. Her eyes seemed to glitter in an emotion I could not name when she said, “He was lost at sea.”

And then the luminescence of the blue faded into clouded cataracts and the old lady tutted about her day and luxurious pigeon feeding habits.

***

The latest interaction with Mrs. Katerina bothered me for the rest of the week. Her words niggled a dusty section in the back of my brain, but the cobwebs were a work in progress. I was incredibly occupied with the last year of Elementary school, after all.

We had our first week of Specials in the third week of September, the time when the summer heat was lessening its mind-blowing intensity.

Walking into the Latin classroom, the hairs of the back of my neck rose to alert me that a pair of eyes were completely focused on my walking form. Grover and I sat naturally in the front of the classroom, where I came to meet the potent, coffee-colored eyes of the centaur.

Mr. Brunner had a rough British vibe to him, from the full beard down to the tweed loose buttoned trench coat. The characterized wheel chair had a lavender mist hazing around the leg area, which was what I guessed was magic residue from the horse to human conversion. I was more surprised that I could see part of the magic, since I was not a child of Hecate or involved with ancient rune hieroglyphs the Egyptian magicians dealt with.

Like all firsts, he had us introducing ourselves, asking to talk about which cultures and religions we practiced, since Latin was a class focusing a good portion of the second trimester with Roman aspects of life and its history. The students worked themselves from the back of the room to the front, which led me to be the last to stand up and face Chiron and the audience.

“I’m Percy, Percy Jackson. I’m agnostic, which means I am not religious, but I could be persuaded that there might be some kind of deity or more up there. As for culture…” I shrugged. “I’m Greek. I’ve never visited the country, but I can speak all the dialects fluently. Alongside Ancient Greek, which is pretty cool.”

I had a Mediterranean complexion, too. Naturally tan, all legs.

The summer break must have wiped my slate clean, because the class politely clapped as if I was some normal kid, not the 4th grade social reject. When I sat back down, Chiron leveled a curious glance at me, then started class as normal.

Grover chewed nervously on the end of his pencil.

As we were handed our first worksheet, Grover gently asked, “You’re fluent in all the different dialects and can replicate the accents in Greece?”

“Yeah,” I told him truthfully, keeping an eye on Chiron’s neutral expression staring down at a teacher’s log. “I’m the best with the islanders’ accents and the southern beaches, but my mountain range accent is passable. Mostly.”

Chiron’s left ear twitched.

“Oh, that’s, uh, cool.”

We worked in silence after that.

***

The next few months of school passed by normally, with Grover and I hanging out at least once a week. It was hard to get sick of someone when you hadn’t really had good friends up till now. He was in his mid-twenties, maybe younger, but the point that he was an adult still stood. Someone I could converse with without having them worry half to death concerning everything coming out of my mouth. Mom worried too much and I didn't want to inflict upon her my “sudden” capacity to argue about the political climate when all I had portrayed myself as to her was a smarter than average child. Grover was, no offense, clueless and a teensy bit daft when it came to subtleties like this, so we openly discussed a multitude of topics.

Greek history was one of them. Well, it wasn’t so much as an argument than it was a one-sided personal narrative. Whenever Grover corrected my knowledge, I didn’t repel it because it was a 99% chance that he was correct and the textbook got the information wrong. Since he was, y’know, a mythical Greek creature. And I was too, which was disorienting to think about.

The new coming of Heracles, mwahahahahaha….

Heracles, not Hercules, because the Greeks were not the Romans, and oh gods was this confusing. Which reminded me, I would have to devise a plan on how to contact Camp Jupiter before Hera made a mess of us lowly Earth dwellers. Jason would be first, obviously, since he was a constant presence at camp, no matter his age. He started living the dangerous life at flippin’ three years old, that’s what.

In order to reach Hazel, I would need Nico to retrieve her from the Fields of Asphodel, so that meant Nico would have to be loyal to me so that I could ask him do complete tasks in the Underworld.

Okay, maybe not worded like that, because the son of Hades was a person, too, and doesn’t deserve being treated as my lapdog or someone to be at my beck and call. Friendship, then. That sounded simple enough. Hopefully won’t backfire into an ugly mess if Nico is disgusted about his crush on a boy. No, that would not do. It was the twenty-first century, goddamnit, people loved anybody they wanted to, regardless of what was between their legs.

Speaking of, Chiron was… mildly attractive. Looked good for his age of like two thousand or so years. Could see him becoming an adult acto….

I slapped a hand over my eyes and whined pitifully. Fucking brain.

Grover sent me an alarmed look, but he was used to my antics by now.

In order to reach Frank, I would need to do some hardcore information gathering, because there were far too many Zhangs in North America. The Chinese boy’s mother will die when he’s sixteen, where he then goes to Lupa, subsequently, Camp Jupiter.

Piper McLean appeared to be the easiest of the Seven to grab a hold of, due to her father being the easiest to track down.

Of course, there’s Annabeth, but I expected to see her very soon when I start attending Camp Half Blood. Well, if nothing grossly unordinary happens and I get killed off super early in the game.

Hopefully it never came to that.

***

Christmas Break started halfway into December, and I was able to persuade mom to letting me go on a school field trip. It was from December 27th to January 3rd, which wasn’t too bad, but the location of the trip was what made her raise some brows.

“A horse ranch? Really, Percy? In the middle of the winter?”

“But, _moooom_ , even Grover’s going! My bestest friend in the whole wide world! And I can handle a little frostbite – Jacksons are tough as nails.”

Mr. Ugliano barked a cutting laugh from his location on the couch. “C’mon, Sally. Let the boy run in the dirt. He needs some manliness knocked into ‘im!” And then he belched, the beer in his hand quivering from the exuding stench.

I wrinkled my nose, grateful that my sense of smell wasn’t as unnaturally high as a satyr’s.

Mom just sighed, then signed the permission form. The pay was surprisingly cheap, but then again, it was a trip to the middle of nowhere in upper state New York, closer to Vermont than any city.

“C’mere kid,” Mr. Ugliano, aka the land whale, beckoned. I obliged after a polite amount of hesitation, sitting on the farthest possible point away from him on the couch. “You need some balls. I seen your girly drawings, kid, and that ain’t gettin’ you anywhere.”

Mom was making chili in the kitchen, but I knew that she was keeping a close ear on our conversation to butt in if need be.

“I’m not sure what you’re saying, Mr. Ugliano.”

“Ha! See you’ve still respectin’ me like you should be. But you gotta decide for yourself, kid. I know you have like one friend, that crippled boy - .”

“ _Gabe.”_

“What, Sally? I’m saying nothing but truths. So, you gotta choose between staying stuck in the mud like a twink you’re looking to be, or a real man. Bring a girl home when you’re older.”

He took a swig of his Guinness. “A pretty girl, make sure.”

Sally emerged from the kitchen, an admonishing expression worn expertly on her face, but all Mr. Ugliano did was ruffle his Cheese puff stained fingers in my hair, and stand up from the depression in the worn cushions to retrieve more beer in the fridge.

Mom lowered the heat on the stove, then pranced over to me. She wiped her calloused fingers over my forehead to rid of some cheesy residue, then kissed my nose. “Remember, Percy, it’s completely okay to be whoever you want to be when you grow up.”

I sent her a rugged grin. “Of course, mom. I’m already looking for a lifeguard job I can work part time in high school.”

She knit her eyebrows at the slight mention of water-related activities ingraining into my future, but simply kissed each cheek and left to tend to dinner.

***

Christmas arrived on a bitterly cold, hailing day. Mom and Mr. Ugliano were fretting over possible damage to the roof of their cars on the morning of, which ruined the spirit of the holiday of fun and cheer. That aside, the 25th was relievingly enjoyable. My step-dad was a complete asshole, but he never raised a hand to hit either of us, never got into legal trouble, and had a decent monthly paycheck. The absurdly gaseous nature of the man made me want to call the CDC every other month to make sure we weren’t slowly being poisoned by nuclear fart bombs, though.

I received a sea-green colored jacket from mom, and she received a poorly knitted sweater, with fraying lines of wool along the sleeves and loose loops around the neck hole. Arts and Crafts club was still a pain in the ass, but at least it resulted in being able to create gifts for free. Even though my stance on my stepdad was pretty shaky, I gave him a mug I fired out of orange colored clay that had “Gabe Ugliano” painted on neatly. Not my handwriting, of course, but a clubmate’s. They took pity on my dyslexic self and wrote his name themselves.

At least he couldn’t make fun of me accidentally misspelling anything. However rare that was, since writing words down wasn’t a hassle as I could arrange letters with my own hands, reading them was the issue.

Speaking of, Mr. Ugliano bestowed a 50% coupon to Hooters to “just us men, eh, kid?”

The 26th was spent ice skating with Grover and mom at an overpopulated ring in Central Park. Later that night, I dreamt of thundering rain, glacial temperatures, and roaring thudding. Demigod dreams were never not strange, but I had been lucky enough in all my eleven years in this body to not have to suffer through any foreboding ones. Oceanic oracles existed in extremely convoluted translations of Turkish legends, so if worse came to worst and I slipped up about foreknowledge to fellow Greeks, I could claim to have powers related to those of Turkish legends. Greece was geographically close to Turkey, so my white lies wouldn’t be too troublesome to cover up.

Grover knocked on our apartment door at exactly 6 AM the next day. I kissed my sleepy mother goodbye, and ran out the door with an ugly yellow duffle bag containing all the necessary supplies for a field trip. It was amazing how much more the family could afford to waste money on, considering how I was attending a free public school and not the countless number of private schools the Real Percy had attended.

“Ready to die?”

“What? P-Percy?”

I smiled cheekily at his rosy cheeked face as he remembered the kind of freak I was.

“Gods, dude, don’t say random nonsense like that. One day you might mean it and I’ll be woefully unprepared.”

“My dearest friend, why on earth would I ever mean to say anything related to death in a personal statement?”

He gulped and I gave a toothy grin. “Sorry dude, I’m just kidding. Let’s catch that bus!”

“One day I’ll have a heart attack – and it’ll be all your fault!”

The four-hour trip was uneventful, ignoring the mass spitball shooting contest that occurred in the back of the bus, in which Mrs. Harrison, the gym teacher, threatened the next person to shoot with a week of lunch detention as soon as we got back from break.

Needless to say, her threat was effective for mediating any remaining behavioral problems.

It was even chillier up north. Unsurprising, but wholly unwelcomed. The twenty-seven ten and eleven-year-olds were a rowdy crowd, but at least I had the opportunity of meeting horses. The horse-back ranges near the city were way too expensive to visit, so I had never tested out equestrian speech. Today was the day.

When we were dropped off at the snow-covered log cabins deep in the state, my heart was racing with anticipation, and I was brimming with excitement. Or maybe shivering from the biting cold. Either way, I was visibly shaking alongside the chattering teethed students.

The whinnies of horses carried through the wind, and something in the back of my mind exploded in a sensation of warmth, freedom, happiness, and salt.

 _‘The sea is near!’_ Cried out a high-pitched voice from the direction of the stables. _‘The sea! The sea!’_

The old man who owned the stables and surrounding acres of land was one Anthony Wilson, who we were supposed to refer to as ‘Sir,’ or else he’d whoop us on the buttocks. His old age belied strength because he was dressed in only a thin shirt and cargo pants.

“Alrighty, students! You’re not going to start riding the horses till tomorrow at ten in the morning, so I’m gonna call out the cabin orders,” shouted Mrs. Harrison, who was standing next to Mr. Wilson and five parent volunteers.

The fifteen boys were split evenly amongst three cabins, and twelve girls amongst the other three. The random assignments split Grover and I into different cabins, but we weren’t the only ones groaning in despair over a friend separation.  

Cabin Three (ah fuck, now isn’t that a nice coincidence) was the farthest from the hearth at the center of the retreat and also closer to the stables. Every step I took in the horses’ direction led to a louder disarray of whinnying and snorts.

 _‘The sea, the sea, the sea,’_ they called out.

“I can hear the horse from here,” a classmate nudged me in the ribs. I identified him as Daniel from Mythology class.

“Me too,” Jacob added, shifting his eyes to the direction of the animals. “They’re kinda loud.”

Wow. It was nice to be treated normally. “Maybe the horses are excited to meet us,” I suggested, trying to keep a smirk off my face.

Daniel unleashed a face-cracking smile. “Dude, that’s awesome. Hey, aren’t you that Percy guy from last year who’s obsessed with horses?”

“Sure.”

Daniel and Jacob sent each other a look. It didn’t strike me as particularly bad, so that was a plus.

“Are you like, weird like Hailey? Because she’s kinda retarded and thinks she’s a pony.”

A spike of anger flew through me, only visible by a twitching eyebrow. However, I contained it enough so the melted snow crunching under our boots didn’t quake. “Daniel, please don’t use that word. My half-brother – “ _Tyson_ “ – has autism. He gets extremely upset whenever someone says that.”

Not the truth, but utilizing pathos in speech was most effective with personal accounts.

Our cabin counselor, one of the students’ dads, approached the three of us. In the nick of time, Daniel raised his hands as an act of innocence. “S-sorry dude. I didn’t mean to say that. Hope your brother’s doing okay.”

The counselor leveled a stern _look,_ but let it drop. Daniel and Jacob offered me weak smiles of apology.

“It’s fine,” I waved a hand in dismal, “Just don’t use the word in front of me and I won’t be upset.”

Peter and Tairee were our other cabin mates, with Mr. Jones, Tairee’s dad as the counselor. Since it was just a few minutes shy of 1 pm, once we had put all our stuff away in the designated cabins, the whole group of 5th graders jumbled out of the toasty gas-heated cabins and to the center hearth, where a crackling fire was surrounded by semi-circle stone benches. Grover and I became glued together again for lunch.

“Can you even ride the horses with your muscular disorder?” I questioned him with a mouth full of soggy PB&J.

Grover bleated nervously. “No, but Mrs. Harrison let me on the trip because I can still participate in the other camp activities.”

A brief trivia question from mythology class came to mind. “Hey, I was just thinking, remember the packet in Mythology class we covered on Greek mythical creatures? In I think October?”

“Umm, yeah? Yes?”

“Sorry, this is random, but I was just wondering. Since you’re the absolute pro at the subject, do you know which ancient creatures could communicate with animals?”

He bleated again, aggressively eating a grilled cheese sandwich. “Some of the demigods had the ability to communicate with their godly parent’s animal under their domain. And the half-creatures could communicate with the respective animal half.”

“You mean like, satyrs could talk to goats?”

A bleat. “Yeah.”

“And a demigod child of, let’s say, Aphrodite, could speak Dove?”

“Uhhhh, yeah?”

“Cool.”

Lunch time was over before I knew it, thus starting the first day of indoor ranch activities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment below about any concerns or questions with this chapter!


	4. Motherland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy gets all oozy smoozy with the Mist. Uhh.... also earrings are hawt ngl.

We Loved - Bol4

Naturally, the first activity in the main cabin (where the kitchens, hall, and Mr. Wilson resided) was arts and crafts. I barely refrained from banging my head into a wall. Giant spools of wool spilled over the rickety wooden tables, and a huge assortment of rusty knitting needles was set perfectly in a narrow box, ready for grubby little hands to accidentally stab someone with them.

Which was exactly what ended up happening.

Lula Jones burst into tears when a knitting needle ripped into her pretty green coat by the cuff, resulting in asymmetrical sleeves. The sheepish kid from Latin class tried to assuage her tears, but that called an end to the arts and crafts period.

I threw my half-done scarf into the trash bin, then raced out the door, back to the cabins where we were to remain for the rest of the day.

“Well, see you at dinner time,” I nodded off to Grover, who had his default nervous ticks running like wildfire.

Since this field trip was a exclusively 5th grade, it contained students from all four Year 5 classes. Because we weren’t all classmates, Tairee’s dad made the six of us group together in a circle on the dust bunny covered, dirty floor of our cabin for a friendly game of getting-to-know-you.

“I’m Percy, my favorite color is sea-green, my favorite food is blueberry muffins, and an interesting fact about me…?” My life so far hadn’t been especially interesting, besides the whole confidential demi-god part. “I’m ambidextrous.”

Okay, cool. Sounded normal enough.

The group games we played for the rest of the afternoon were fun, in a mind numbing, puerile way. I drowned out the heavy words of the horses not one acre away with mildly amusing charades, Pictionary, and the floor is lava (that one was actually fun – I loved jumping from top bunk to top bunk while cackling madly when someone hit their face on a bedpost).

 

***

 

Dinner was announced via the deep bellowing timbre of a conch shell.

Exiting the safety of a contained room to the outside created an off-balance notion all throughout my body, when a rush of foreign yet understandable words became clearer and sharper to my brain.

 

_ ‘When will we see the embodiment of crashing waves, smell the scent of sea-brine, feel the heavy weight of sun-shined sands?’ _

_ ‘When will we experience the radiance that the purest soul carries?’ _

_ ‘When will we bestow the sea wreaths upon wreaths of our devotion?’ _

 

_ ‘The sea, the sea, the sea,’  _ the voices continued to chant. Terribly, I droned them out with the sound of a fast-beating, adrenaline filled heart.

The crescent moon was set high in the dark and lonely night, for hair-raising storm clouds covered the glitter of the stars.

Even after dinner ( _ Are you okay? Percy, are you zoning out? Hey, talk to me, I’m your best friend _ ), whistling wind carried over breathless vows of allegiance, love, and loyalty. I wondered when I would finally see Blackjack. The miniscule gaps between the door frame and plaster covered walls let in tiny gusts of neighs, and the shuddering glass panels of the window reverberated with a burning desire to ignite a passionate following that would leave me trembling for days. I yearned for instant connection as they yearned for the faintest of embraces from a trace of Poseidon. I swore to myself to give them the attention they desired. But only at the fair trade of learning the undoubtedly rich history of the horses, the access into horse lands, and the possibility to call onto them when needed.

As the clock ticked deeper and deeper into the twilight zone, I laid awake, eyes searching for a sign of action in mind’s eye. Everyone was asleep, I told myself. Nothing to worry about, nothing to fear.

With that at the forefront of my thoughts, I slipped on a fleece jacket and boots, then crept quietly into the frost lathered dark outside. The horses’ speeches had muted down into a tolerable amount by this time, but as I headed towards the direction of the stables, the animals stirred one by one.

Pitch black, unblinking eyes stared into the depths of my soul.

These… these were not  _ horses _ .

They could not be simply referred to as such because the strong, majestic creatures that stood gallantly before me did not deserve to be considered all but a barnyard animal, for the beauty I gazed into had me captivated.

“Good evening, darlings,” I murmured possessively. Elegant creatures of caramel, black, white, red, spotted, and more bumped their necks against the olive green chipped painted stall dividers.

_ ‘Hello, little sea,’ _ sung a symphony.

I bowed my head at the lowest possible angle while still maintaining the natural hierarchy. “If I may, I will take every one of you out for a ride and let us introduce each other.”

If I was going to be here for an entire week, might as well get the introductions over with on the first night.

The chattering, excited whinnies provided an answer, so I unlocked the gate to the front most stall. A deep cherry colored horse trotted out, then kneeled down for its head to grace in forbearing of my feet. “No, no, I forbid everyone here to treat me as high as a god. Treat me as your equal, my beloveds.”

The horse reluctantly rose up, but only to lean down again to accommodate my shorter height and let me climb onto its back.

Swifter than rustling pine needles flying in the wind, the great mastiff sped out of the stables and into the open swaths of land from a forest trail.

“Lovely thing, what is your name?” I whispered carefully.

_ ‘I am called Skön.’ _

Breathily, sensually, charismatically, I oozed the godly power coursing through the river that was my veins. “My name is Perseus, and I am the son of the sea.”

Whispering, silent and airy, because I did not wish to make the entire world aware of my presence from a slip-up in front of any tree or bush dryad. Zeus, in ancient times, kept on hooking up with dryads, so I bet they had some sort of gossip mill together.

I repeated my actions with the twelve other horses in the stables, even trotting along with a young mare since my eleven year old body was light enough to ride it. I learned the thirteen horses’ names, ambitions, loves, language, and culture through the tidbits of oral history the older ones dropped in our conversations.

 

***

 

Dawn struck when I snuck back into Cabin Three. Feeling the waves of exhaustion crash down, I ripped off the jacket and boots, then stumbled into bed. Naturally, not an hour later, the alarm rang. It took Jacob splashing his bottled water on my face to wake me up, at which Tairee’s dad made a menacing face, both at his immaturity and my late arousal. I suspected it was more the water itself in contact with my body and not the surprising splash of coldness that woke me up, because it was, y’know,  _ water _ .

The night time activity I indulged myself in made me want to take a steamy hot shower, but breakfast was going to start in two minutes, so I made do by changing clothes and running my head under the bathroom sink’s lava. The outrageously puffy ski jacket I forgot existed stuffed at the bottom of my duffel bag contained enough heat to sell some real estate, anyway. The only saving grace of this field trip, Cabin Three agreed on, was that it wasn’t snowing. Sure, the dead grass crunched with frost, the pines and surrounding grounds were smothered in that disgusting snow-sludge, and the temperature was most likely going to dip below freezing this evening, but at least we weren’t being trampled on by blizzarding winds and the Zeus’ frozen tears.  

"Breakfast!" Whooped Daniel, throwing his arms in the sky with rather unfair excitedness in this early morning.

But yeah, food.

Once our cabin entered the main hall, Mr. Williams rose from a creaking rocking chair and announced that we could start eating. Grover took notice of huge under eye circles as soon as I plopped down at his bench and started fretting like mom.

“Percy, are you okay? Did you sleep badly? Did you have an unusual dream or something of that nature?” He whisper-shouted in my ear as we stood up to race to the breakfast line.

Hoping that he couldn’t pick up the ‘I-just-spent-the-whole-night-outside’ smell, I shook my head and simply said, “Nah, nothing horrible but the bumpy bed.”

The relief was palpable, but the worried knot between his eyebrows still stuck.

The period between breakfast and horses (they had subdued quite a lot since yesterday, which basically summed up to me telling them to stop chanting for me over and over again) comprised of Mrs. Harrison having a lesson outside at the hearth where she tried to lecture us about earth sciences. It didn’t go so well, of course, because the majority of the kids (and adults) were only focusing on staying warm by huddling together like penguins. The boys and girls stayed in separate huddles because ten year old girls have cooties and ten year old boys are mud-filled ingrates.

Eventually, the clock struck ten.

The whole lot of us shuffled to the stables, where I could hear the groggy morning voices of Skön’s brethren. Whoopsy-daisy, my fault the horses didn’t catch enough shut-eye last night.

With that thought, I stifled a yawn.

Mr. Williams stood center-stage on a short tree stump. “Alright, children, there’re thirteen horses, so each of y’all are gonna learn how to ride today.”

Grover stumbled to the back of the group, next to the adults, muttering, “Except for me.”

Mrs. Harrison patted his back reassuringly, quietly commenting, “Hopefully those legs of yours get some good physical therapy.”

“Ah, yes. But I’m crippled. Very much crippled.”

We were split into two groups, where I was placed into the second one. Which meant waiting around for half an hour while watching a bunch of 5 th graders fail miserably (and hilariously) at climbing onto cranky horses. The first person to successfully secure themselves into the saddle was riding Blomma, a chestnut colored mare. Blomma trotted around the area in a well-trained circle, but strayed a tiny bit to toss her head in my direction.

_ ‘Perseus, this tiny human girl is giving me many compliments. Tell me her name,’  _ Blomma whinnied.

I gave a quick thumbs up at the person in question. “Wow, good job, Hailey.”

In return, I received a gummy smile from the redheaded girl and a  _ ‘thank you _ ’ from her steed.

I glanced behind me at Grover, seeing if he observed the slight interaction between the horse and I. Luckily, he had been busy chewing on a metal fork he stole from the kitchens. Which was completely, utterly obvious, he wasn’t even being discrete, for fuck’s sake, why…?

And then I blinked, in which the fork flickered to a celery stick, then back to a fork.

What.

Was this… Was this the Mist? Could I see through it?

The hairs on the back of my head raised with a zap of lightning, and I turned my head around just in time to avoid his glancing upwards. It was a curious thing, how I could feel his eyes on the back of my head, but I just  _ knew _ for sure that they were there.

The second person to adjust to a horse was Tairee, and the Ethiopian boy was grinning madly at his father, who was taking multiple pictures of him and the white mare. Selleri, the mare, was attempted to buck the boy off because she hated having her picture taken with a passion.

_ ‘My mane is too poofy to look good,’ _ she sniped viciously at the unknowing father.

The second group’s turn to adjust to horses came up, which went even worse than the first group. All the horses (not to brag, but definitely bragging) argued which one of them I should be riding, and added fuel to the flames by discussing ways they could show off how much the sea meant to them.

Blomma ended up bucking her rider (thank goodness for safety and insurance forms, amiright) into hard-packed dirt over something she and Skön were arguing about.

Poor little Timmy.

 

***

 

The field trip, while disastrous, remained fun.

Then again, chaos and fun usually came intertwined. The bus was full of raunchy laughter on the whole ride back, which was hell for the ears, but amusing to see the overreactions of the gym teacher who appeared wholly sleep deprived, twitching at every little thing that was louder than 70 decibels.

Maybe she was just drunk. Who knows?

The new understanding of my powers slithered drunkenly inside my blood, whispering tales of a promising future and a demand for something  _ more. _ I could command legions of horses, let the majestic beasts stomp foes six feet under with their taut, rippling muscles.

_ They were mine. _

Grover noticed something off in the oddly content face I wore throughout the ride back. In fact, he seemed concerned for my wellbeing during the entire week, but I dismissed his concern in lieu of the captivating extent of what I could do in this new body. Because it was, in fact, my body. Perhaps there was a miniscule amount of regret for taking away a baby’s consciousness and what the fates had written for Percy to live through, but I would not easily transfer who was supposed to be inhabiting this body if provided the opportunity. This was my life now, the dangers nigh and forged connections running deep.

Grover walked me home, muttering indecipherably under his breath while we shivered in the January freeze.

Things remained lifeless and unnaturally paced for the next few weeks. It was as if I was watching an unraveled story of my life play out in front of me. I was physically there, yet my mind and soul felt like they were taking a seat and watching a tape of things I could recall experiencing in the moment, yet not at all.

Some nights I just laid over the sheets, staring blankly at the ceiling that was colored a navy blue, reflecting the outside sky visible from the musty two panel window.

I… didn’t know. There was a little bubble in my throat that wanted to speak out to help the off feelings, but another bubble inside suppressed it. Was it forbidden? Was it shocking, surprising, scary? I didn’t know but I couldn’t find it in myself to really care.

This feeling, in fact, was not a feeling at all.

It was the Mist.

The thick, residual miasma spreading emitted from all over, everything I could discern. The tiny cactus plant mom kept on the kitchen counter, the oily fingerprints left on store windows, the orange traces of fur on the apartment stairwell from the neighbor’s cat - the imprints left by living organisms.

The magic was so entrenched in the environment that it replaced my emotions with waves of apathy to cope with the sudden intake of otherworldly materials. The Mist wasn’t an idea, or something utilized from the flick of a magic wand. It was a substance. It oozed and glopped disgustingly like slime in shades of rainbow that flickered and hazed into existence as though it lived on a different plane. It was what I imagined the entire ultraviolet spectrum to be represented as.

The foreign notion of a pseudo multiverse had me reeling. I didn’t like this. My mind didn’t belong in this world’s, where I became attuned with all the other foreign objects due to my own nature of not quite belonging, spiritually and mentally.

I did my best to block out the other plane. It did work, to an extent. However, the constant reminder that it was there, and I could see the force, remained in thought.

That was until the rejected ability welcomed me with burning arms.

Sometime in early February, a monster settled itself in front of the library. Mrs. Katerina and I were just about to leave, until I caught sight of fiery swaths of orangey-red roll over what looked to be a man wearing a trench coat. Unwittingly, I forced the red miasma to disperse enough to catch a look of its face, where two beady yellow eyes crinkled in a smile. Dark brown scales littered its serpentine features.

Mrs. Katerina tutted behind me, muttering, “Oh dearie, it’s time for the earrings.”

Earrings? Well, she had been talking about one of her half-siblings’s collection of crustacean jewelry the other day.

I whirled around to face the old lady. “Oh, uh, sorry Mrs. Katerina, but I think I forgot my jacket upstairs. Let me go get it, you don’t have to walk me home.” Neverminding the fact that said jacket was currently tied around my waist.

A strange light glinted in her clear eyes.

“May you be good,” she said. And then patted my shoulder and walked out the building.

Because the double doors were made of polycarbonate glass, I saw Mrs. Katerina hobble on the concrete sidewalk, held my breath when she gave a passing glance at the monster, felt the blood rush down to my toes when it stared back, then burst open the doors when she was out of view.

Its head swiveled back to face the doors of the library, where I was currently standing brazenly in front of, adrenaline and fear levels spiking so much that the near freezing temperatures of the outside flew under my radar.

The orangey-red transformed into burnt orange and garnet red. It took a step ( _ those weren’t feet, those weren’t feet… they were bulky, spike studded slithering tails _ ) closer, closer, closer…

The absence of people on the street and exiting the library was uncomfortable, yet for the best, if I wanted to make sure there was no figurative shrapnel hitting innocent bystanders. When the sickening energy shroud breached my own light green one, I bolted. To the right, darting into a muddy alleyway where the height of the surrounding buildings blocked the majority of the daytime light. Remnants of last night’s snow crunched under my sneakers as I ran, and ran, and ran.

A tendril of fire entered my peripheral by the time I skirted around the edges of the city precinct. I spared a look back; the figure had transformed into a half-snack creature, where puce and dirt brown scales glistened unnaturally with the red miasma. From the distance, I could hear the loud rush of cars on the Queensboro bridge. There was a way to lose the serpent by crossing the tunnels underground, but I didn’t want to wander into the Upper East Side where I could get as easily lost as the creature I was trying to lose. With that in mind, I shifted to the side just in time to avoid a clawed arm whip out the place my head had been not a second before. I ran parallel with the bridge instead, heading into an enclave of skyscrapers where there was bound to be an abandoned alleyway with a fire escape.

Fear flooded through me, the undying need to escape the wretchedness, needing someone else to be the savior when I only had myself. I held my breath when I clambered up the fire escape, pushing myself underneath a window sill, barely moving in fear of the monster below me being able to sniff out any motion, any rustle of clothing, any squeak of friction. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart in my ears and the bitterly sharp February winds biting exposed skin.

For I was not even a whisper in the wind, not even a falling leaf in a green sky, not even a drop of water in rushing rapids. I was nothing, nothing was me, nobody can see the nothing, and the nothing stares at nobody.

This was when the interesting part happened.

The Mist tightened into an emerald shield and encased my body. I felt invisible. I  _ was  _ invisible.

Beneath me, where I dared to not look, the burning miasma left my senses. After an indeterminable amount of time, I eased the shield. The emerald shattered into a million glittering shards, then dispersed into the regular gaseous substance. Sighing, I forced the vision of the Mist plane to disappear from normal viewing. The world dulled in intensity, yet maintained the normal cheer and brightness of life.

 

***

 

It took about forty minutes to walk home. Drunken, raunchy laughter could be heard from the cracks between the door and floor, yellow light emitting onto the worn out welcome mat. Mr. Ugliano must be having his poker friends over.

I nearly groaned at the prospect of being forced awake from the obnoxious mini party that was going to continue well past midnight.

It was Saturday, so it wasn’t as though I had to be awake for anything the next day.

“Oi, it’s the kid!” I shut the door behind me, then shucked my mud crusted sneakers off onto the shoe rack.

Poker Friend Number One gestured wildly towards my general position, and three other eyes stumbled to me.

“Good evening, Mr. Ugliano,” I allowed. “There’s more bean dip in the fridge, behind the butter container.”

Cue the barking laughs. Mr. Ugliano rose from the depression in the couch. “Good kid,” he slurred, patting a beefy hand on my shoulder when we passed by each other in the kitchen. Or, maybe he was using me as a crutch to support himself to the fridge. Who actually knew.

The impromptu running session made me fatigued, so I took out the leftover pasta, a plastic fork, then scurried into my bedroom. The cold meal tasted a little nasty, but filled up my belly to the point of needing a nice, relaxing nap.

Even though the apartment was loud and full of alcohol induced excitement, I soon fell asleep, the marigold orange of the setting sun bathing my room in soothing warmth.

 

 

_ Thunder. _

_ Crashing. _

_ Clapping lightning. _

_ Grey skies, pelting hail, swirling winds. _

_ The sky is shaking with the might of the god of the upper realm. There is chaos, there is fear, there is devolving into simple minded creatures with pressuring arguments of war. Turmoil is heavy in the air. _

_ I cannot breathe in such tumultuous times. _

_ I stare upwards. It is black. I stare to the ground. It is black. _

_ The black compresses me. The sole light is from me; the world is dark and unwelcoming. _

 

 

_ Quaking. _

_ Shaking. _

_ Icy waves slam down on all shores. _

_ Blue so deep is sucks you in, into the endless void of terror. It drowns you so that you cannot breathe, cannot speak, cannot scream out for help, cannot cry out in fear. Water settles thick and heavy in your lungs, now inescapable.  Eight minutes to live before drowning. _

_ Eight… _

_ Seven… _

_ Six… _

_ Five… _

_ Four… _

_ Lost count. _

 

_ (Constricting throat, spasming esophagus, burning larynx, where is freedom, where is peace) _

 

 

_ Thick. _

_ Dank. _

_ Putrid. _

_ Ghoulish groans sound out from musty caverns. _

_ Hauntingly beautiful light reflects from precious metals and gems of all colors. The world is a cacophony of desire, love, and death. There is breath, but hidden under the depths of the known world. _

_ Noises of tombstones rumbling under dewy grass. _

_ Crack. Crack. Crack. The rocks tumble out the cave, breaking hidden bones. _

_ A deep banging like a drum. _

_ It is a pattern. _

_ To let them know of death. _

_ (Slowly it emerges) _

 

 

I woke up with a pounding headache and an unsettled stomach. I stared at the clock ticking nervously on the off-white wall, then at the brightness of the outside.

“Late enough to go to the store and buy some Tums,” I reasoned. “And early enough to come back home without alerting the adults.”

Mom always went bonkers whenever I suffered the smallest of papercuts or the slightest of colds.

There was a bucket of quarters hidden under the bathroom sink for emergencies, but I told the disapproving metal coins that there were enough quarters to buy an entire motel anyway, and left with five dollars worth of coins jangling in my pockets. Which wasn’t wise, as a New Yorker. Everybody knew to keep your money to yourself, and to never flaunt it in public, knowingly or unknowingly.

However, I wasn’t in the best of mindsets at that moment.

Which also may have resulted in me coming home wearing something Mr. Ugliano would’ve called the gayest shit ever. If he could see through the Mist, that is.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, backing up a bit.

I had exited the nearby Rite Aid with a bottle of fruit flavored Tums chewables in hand when I ran into a familiar face.

Mrs. Katerina had smiled crookedly at the mere coincidence of running into her favorite little Perseus (“aren’t that many, nowadays”), had seen the nausea relieving chewables, and decided to invite me over for some tea.

My mind, I remember, had been so clouded with foreign putty-like substance that I went “fuck it” and went with her.

Somehow, that had resulted in visiting an underground tattoo and piercing parlor.

My brain blanked out on the part that concerned me walking home and luckily running back into bed before Mr. Ugliano or mom woke up to start their day.

I twisted the sterling silver studs in each ear, amazed that the piercing didn’t hurt, and that I could hide the moment of strange impulsiveness from Mr. Ugliano by blocking the earrings with the Mist.

Mom, however…

Shoot.

 

***

 

Emerald Academy, even though it was a public school, was kinda preppy. So, there were big concrete stairs leading up to the front entrance, with some tiny deciduous trees most likely imported illegally from Central Park by cheap as fuck construction workers. It looked nice, ignoring the fact that all the wheelchair kids had to enter the campus through a side entrance situated about a shady alleyway.

Grover waved one of his crutches in the air to grab my attention. I raced over.

“Hey,” I greeted.

He cracked a grin. “Percy, how was your weekend?”

We entered the building, the clean marble floors glistening brightly like all untrampled floors do at the beginning of the week.

Shoving the memories of what happened with the reptilian monster into the back of my brain was easier than envisioned. It was looking to be going back into a normal schedule until gym class. Grover and I were in the back of the line, as the tallest students had to walk in the back, with the shortest in the class as the line leader.

“Whoa, dude!” He whisper-shouted, pointing a shaky finger at each ear. “Since when did you pierce your ears?”

“Yesterday, actually. Mrs. Katerina from the library paid for the starter sets.”

“That’s… kind of hipster, no lie.”

I scowled, then shoved a finger over his lips to shush him from such an atrocious line of thought.

Our teacher stopped the class before we could enter the gymnasium. “Class, Mrs. Harrison decided to retire from teaching very suddenly last Saturday, so you guys will be having a temporary coach for the rest of the year!”

On cue, the gymnasium doors opened from the inside, revealing a short and skinny elderly woman. Grover stiffened besides me, something resembling a rumbling bleat stifling in his mouth.

“Hello, children,” crooned the new gym teacher. Her voice was nasally and sharp, matching the intensity of the pitch black leather jacket. The baby pink basketball shorts were a little hysterical with that ensemble, to be completely honest.

“I’ll be your P.E. teacher for the rest of the year. You can call me Mrs. Dodds.”

Fuck.

Wordlessly, I entered the gymnasium with my fellow classmates, ignoring the burning stare of the Fury.

While completing the beginning exercise games, my mind raced a million times over. Why was Mrs. Dodds here? I was still in 5 th grade – the Lightning Bolt shouldn’t have been stolen yet. Having Grover and Chiron come to protect or scout my wellbeing earlier than the texts made sense, since I probably had a stronger scent from more practice with my godly heritage. But having one of the Furies? Hades had no reason to hunt me. To my knowledge, Luke Castellan will steal the bolt in the middle to the end of my 6 th grade year. Had the timeline somehow shifted due to the butterfly effect? Had I changed something profound enough to cause a ripple in the timeline, where events shifted to one year earlier? What had I done?

And what was I going to do now?

Other than the insidious gaze that settled on the back of my head throughout the entire class period, gym went well enough.

The end of the day was Mythology class. The gurgling butterflies in my stomach mostly disappeared in the presence of the centaur, knowing that if worst came to worst, he could most definitely protect me from the brunt of the gods’ blame of who stole the lightning bolt (did Luke mess up the timeline? Not cool, man) or from Mrs. Dodds, or both.

Getting ripped to shreds sounded just as bad as dying from electrocution.

But… perhaps?

No.

Gods, no.

If Thanatos could somehow sense the past death exuding out of some deathly aura, then I was screwed. Mrs. Dodds could have been sent up here to finish the job and make sure that I stayed down for the second time.

_ (Crashing waves, frothing liquid, losing vision…) _

The Egyptian mythology worksheet laid on the desk in front of me was still unanswered by the last five minutes of class from my constant mind-wandering and mind-wracking thoughts. Because I really did try to be the best student possible, wanting to build up good study habits in preparation of a 4.0 high school GPA to be admitted into the same university as I had Before (Stanford, yeah baby), I panicked at the unfinished work when I came to.

Not having time, I scrambled out answers using the language that came the quickest and most natural, knowing Chiron would grade the worksheet anyway, after pretending to google translate the language. Ancient Greek written loud and clear in the black fountain pens I preferred to write in.

‘Horus, Set, Ba…’ I speedily answered, then turned in the sheet.

Will I ever visit Brooklyn in the future?

Only time will tell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review and send kudos! The more people who read my works, the faster my pace of writing and publishing chapters will be!


	5. Anaklusmos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hey hey i got my ears pierced recently, too

Three months had passed since Mrs. Dodds had showed up. Nothing overtly suspicious occurred during my class’ gym period, but the occasional miniscule twitches of her nostrils whenever we were within a three meter diameter of each other had me on edge. Due to Grover’s crutches, he had to sit in the corner of the gymnasium during games. For his own sake of mind, I constantly tried to be as close as possible to my guardian satyr, so he didn’t erupt in a bout of cold sweat when I seemed too far away.

Mrs. Katerina and I kept weekly Saturday visits during the morning at the public library, but recently we branched off to other various locations, such as the park, the aquarium where mom used to work at, and teahouses.

It was at a teahouse that reeked of heavily infused lavender and chamomile essential oils that the old lady gifted me an addition to the starter sets.

“These are… beautiful. Thank you, γιαγιά.”

The earrings were a pink coral with a sea-green and aquamarine gem laden inside a mesmerizingly carved whirlpool. Mrs. Katerina sniffed, dabbing a blue handkerchief under baggy eyes. “They were family heirlooms, little Perseus.”

“I… Are you sure I can wear them?”

She poured more tea. “Of course, dearie. They were difficult to forge, so make sure you don’t break them.”

Forge? Usually that term is used to implicate the creation of heavy-duty materials or metallic factory appliances.

 

***

 

It was when Mrs. Dodds asked to see me after class that I knew that I had to confront Chiron and Grover about attending Camp Half-Blood.

All the students filed out the door in an orderly manner, with Grover practically running in his crutches and knock off sneakers towards the electives hall. When the last kid exited, the click of the door locking into place sounded dooming to my ears.

Mrs. Dodds approached me warily, closing the distance uncomfortably. “Now, now, Perseus. Nothing to worry about. I’ve just got to ask… _how will you taste when your eyes are glassed over in terror?_ ”

The doors to the gymnasium burst open with a resounding _thud_ of the steel-enforced doors. Mr. Brunner, in all his wheelchair glory, shouted at me to catch the flying object erupting out of his hand. Only later did I register that he seemed to drop all pretenses of being a normal languages teacher and had spoken in Ancient Greek. As soon as I caught the golden object ( _the pen, the fucking pen, it’s the long lost weapon Anaklusmos_ ), my gym teacher sprouted dark grey wings that were adorned with dried blood and gruesome looking tears. It took the appearance of dead skin stretched painfully over bones, scales, and a peppering of spikes. I didn’t understand the physics behind flight, especially when the “flying bits” were something straight out of a B-rated horror film.

My eyes hazed between the membrane esque cover of the Mist and normal sight, where I knew that neither could be relied upon to the fullest extent when dealing with a creature much better versed in magics than I could ever be.

And then she pounced.

There was no time to glance back at the doors to see if Chiron had any extra back up plans for this course of action, for Alecto the Fury snapped close its wings and lunged forward at lightning speeds, claws out and gnarly jaw ready to bite off unsuspecting fingers. Dried blood cracked off wrinkly, liver-spotted skin, and quivering white hairs charged right under my nose as I witnessed the premonition of my doom. This would be where my first direct confrontation with a Greek monster would be the end of me, where I wouldn’t be quick enough to dodge or slash the celestial bronze sword… the sword!

In a split-second, I dodged to the left, narrowly escaping the throws of death, but at the expense of one of its wings slapping the pen out of my hand. The ballpoint pen, still uncapped, now laid on the other side of the gymnasium.

Fuck.

I didn’t know when or how the spiritual bond thing between Anaklusmos and the other Percy was supposed to have happened, but I was too occupied with ducking underneath yellow stained claws and fangs to check if the sword teleported itself into my pocket.

“Perseus!” Alecto hissed from above. I darted to the side before forelimbs could skewer me alive. “A very strong demigod. I’m going to enjoy the taste of your flesh after I’ve finished playing with you.”

I needed water, I thought almost nonchalantly, when I raised my arms up in a crude block to protect my face (a rather good-looking face, if I may digress). Claws penetrated through the shirt sleeves and tore open three aggressive slashes over the soft flesh of the forearms. The white-hot flash of pain from the surprising hit had me reeling. Unbiddenly, I dropped to the ground, the sudden rush of blood exiting this vessel shocking me into stillness.

However, this would not be where I wanted it to end. The smug monster crawled over, just inches away from my resting location.

“Look at this brave and strong little demigod,” it crooned in mock pity. Then Alecto leaned down closer, closer, closer…

I remembered the warning Mrs. Katerina had given me during the piercing. _Remember your roots, else there might be nothing to wake up to_.

The tiny sea-stone studs in my earlobes started to burn, and a tendril from the other plane flashed innocently into my peripherals. The originator of the color? The earrings.

Without much to lose at this point, I grabbed and twisted the left earring out of its hole, knowing that even the miniscule sharp point of the jewelry could make a difference in a no-rule fight situation. Sweat and blood from the violent tug at the jewelry dripped down my earlobe as a bright flash of light came into existence. Alecto hissed at the burning brightness and skittered back a good ten feet. That was when a heavy weight dropped into my hand.

A trident.

Seven feet tall, adorned with carvings of swirls, sea creatures, and ancient runes as old as time itself. The prongs shined bronze, with the middle prong’s spear point glistening silver. A seemingly worn handle snuggled overtop the rough bumpy blue and white coral staff handle. Pretty pearls embedded around the hilt seemed to glitter in warning of the monster suddenly shifting forward.

Alecto’s eyes turned a maniacal red, with the sclera pitch black and depthless. A taut smirk wrapped viciously on a wrinkled face. “My jaunt into the realm of the living has proved to be wonderful.”

Cautiously, I gripped the trident with a relaxed wrist and gave it a few experimental twists. The center of balance was perfect. Almost strangely so. As though it was crafted just for me.

“So,” I tried to not let my voice wobble as the Fury and I circled around in an impasse. “You’re up in this ‘realm’ for no business reason? Just… because you were hungry for blood or something?”

If it was even possible at this point, its fangs grew longer and sharper.

“Some of my brethren had scouted a powerful scent that we had not smelled in a long time. I came up here to see if it was true… I can smell the ocean on you, _Perseus._ ”

Reassuring. At least the lightning bolt hadn’t been stolen a year early.

Because I didn’t want to rely on half-assed instincts with vaguely Poseidon-related weaponry, I skirted for more time to create a better, more survivable plan. “The ocean? Wow. Yeah, uhhh… my godly parent lives in the underwater realm.”

“ _The sea god!”_

“What? Oh, no… uhhh, my godly parent is…” Who were the gods that lived under Poseidon’s domain?

The monster took a clanging step forward. In this nice May weather, I heard a boom of thunder.

“…Triton,” I finished lamely. “So, I’m the son of the son of the ocean. Yeah, that.”

Alecto cackled. “Demigod, Triton hasn’t had land-walking children in eons!”

Fuck.

“Which’ll make it more the treat to tear you to pieces!”

Slightly better, but still not optimal.

With reflexes I knew I had but seriously never wanted to test out, I blocked a swiping clawed hand with the butt of the massive trident and retaliated with a biceps-straining swing. A sallow ear flopped off the monster’s body, but I ignored my lunch wanting to emerge by twirling the weapon like a feather-light baton and smacking Alecto in the sternum with the side of the prongs.

It growled after narrowly dodging that strike by flapping high up into the air. “A weak demigod!”

I huffed, then muttered, “I’ll surprise you.”

And promptly threw the beautiful coral masterpiece like a javelin, where it sliced right through the monster as though it was made out of playdoh. The rotten corpse animation screeched in shock before dispersing into sand.

The trident had imbedded itself into the upper part of the wall from the force of the throw, but it also disappeared from sight. Not a second later, a familiar twinge of cold metal inflicted itself back onto my right earlobe.

Adrenaline garnered throughout the fight must have seeped out of my body, because my legs trembled, then gave out. Sweat from nerves or exertion lathered shaking hands as I sat in the middle of the silent, empty gymnasium.

The dim shine of a bronze pen caught my attention. In a trance, I stood up and stumbled over to pick up Anaklusmos. It looked like a normal ballpoint pen, sans the unique coloring. Curious, I uncapped the tip, unsheathing a medium length xiphos.

Would’ve preferred the hairclip, to be perfectly honest.

With that in mind, I walked out the gym, head very much not screwed on right. The hallways were empty, as per the time dictated when I checked my wristwatch. School had ended a few minutes ago. I raced to my classroom to retrieve my backpack (those things were expensive, goddammit), where it was thankfully yet unusually, again, empty. Grover wasn’t even waiting outside the front entrance like he usually did when walking home.

No. Instead, the Latin teacher waited.

He looked up from his leisurely position. “Ah,” simply said. “Percy. If you’re done borrowing my pen, I would like it back, please. So many tests to grade, you see.”

Because I was stupid and impatient to get it over with already, I refused him. “Only,” I drawled, tapping the ballpoint pen on my chin. “Only if you tell me why one of the Furies just attacked me.”

Mr. Brunner, swifter than a coursing river (he was emitting some seriously cool Shane vibes today, okay), snatched the pen out of my tired grasp. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about, but clearly you need to head home, to your mother and step-father, and get some rest.”

“Alright then, sir. But, just, saying, I didn’t borrow your pen. Never used it.”

The lilt in my voice must have drawn out some notion of long-suffering emotions, because Mr. Brunner conceded to talk, but only back inside his classroom. I dutifully wheeled the centaur back inside, heart pounding faster than during the fight.

This was it. It was time to ascend to higher platforms.

I wheeled him to his desk, then shut the door.

“First things first, Percy, is that names have power,” he advised. It was awkward to crane my neck down at the legendary figure, so I took a front-row seat.

“The bad kind of power or the good kind?”

“The… well. It depends. But mostly negative, so I’d warn against throwing around mighty names.”

After a pregnant pause, he leaned forward against his desk. “Tell me what you meant when you said that you didn’t use my pen.”

I waited a certain amount of time to drop the words: “Didn’t need it.”

Chiron was too dignified to splutter, but he did frown deeply and lean back into his chair, an interesting expression formed on his face. “Due to this little…” he gestured around meaninglessly. “…exchange, it appears that I have underestimated you. Tell me, Percy, how much information you’ve gathered around your existence.”

Playing it safe, okay.

I shrugged. “Well. Over the course of my life, weird things have happened. Monsters from Ancient Greek lore stalk me sometimes. I was born with the perfect understanding of Ancient Greek, and through my own studies, have been able to master Modern Greek, whereas I am dyslexic in every other language. I suppose ADHD is common enough amongst hyperactive little boys, but I have to take the strongest meds there are to counteract the symptoms. And, the most recent monster called me a ‘demigod.’”

Mr. Brunner rubbed at his goatee. “I am very sorry that you have to live this life, but I can make it… manageable, concerning the monsters.”

I grinned sleezily, hoping the centaur couldn’t see through all my bullshit. “Is there some kind of Hogwarts for demigod children, where we learn to harness the power of the Greek gods against monsters?”

“Not quite a magical school, but close enough. I mentor a camp for demigod children called Camp Half Blood, where you are taught how to defend yourself against creatures of the Underworld and learn about your heritage.”

The fact that Chiron knew about the Harry Potter series was exciting yet disturbing. How many centuries of pop culture fads had this guy been through?

“So, Mr. Brunner, how do you figure out godly heritage in demigods? Do all children of a certain god have this one trait or something?”

He paused. “No, not really, as the gods can take on many forms. However, gods may claim their children with a shroud or message of sorts. We refer to this as ‘being claimed.’”

I stretched my arms over my head and relaxed against the back of the chair. “So - .”

“Oh, goodness, your arms.”

Forgotten gashes of clotted blood striped against tan skin. “Whoopsies. Forgot about that.”

Mr. Brunner chuckled casually, even though his rifling into his bag seemed hurried. “That’s what all the strong heroes say after a battle. Definitely does not ease the minds of the healers.”

At that, he tossed a plastic wrapped square of food that looked like cornbread.

“Food of the gods?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Ambrosia,” he confirmed. “Godly food can heal demigods, but take too much and you’ll end up in a much worse condition than you were found.”

“Lovely.”

The ambrosia tasted like a warm summer night of fireflies and nostalgia. The best of mom’s cooking mashed into a 2 inch by 2 inch golden square. A wave of guilt hung heavily over me. I had forgotten about mom in this entire ordeal.

“Can… Can I finish this school year first, and then go to the camp?”

A gentleness broke across his face. “Of course, Percy. Camp Half Blood is typically for the summer season, anyway.”

A brill alarm broke the ambience. “Look at the time,” he said, pocketing a pocket-watch. “I should be heading back to my quarters.”

“Is your camp in Manhattan?”

“Camp Half-Blood is in Long Island, a few hours drive away.”

“Then how do you travel here to there every day…?”

Mr. Brunner wheeled out the door, and I jumped out my seat to catch him again. In the hallway, there was no one to be found.

***

“Hey mom.”

“Hi Percy, how was school?”

***

Grover and I caught up the next day at school before the morning bell rang.

“Hey Perce.”

“Hey satyr.”

His mouth gaped open like a fish and I was tempted to stick a finger in it.

I wiggled my eyebrows conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, I killed the monster and then Mr. Brunner and I had a long chat.”

That didn’t include Grover, sadly enough, but I could fabricate something up.

It was worth the expression on his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos and comments to let me know how the story is and how I'm doing!


	6. The one where he's "hella gay"

**Chapter 6**

**Published: 2019/09/29**

* * *

"I'm going to miss you so much," Mom whispered into my ear, choking back tears. She opened her arms and engulfed my entire body in a soul crushing embrace, a faint wetness dotting my shoulder.

When she let me go, I forced a relaxed smile and offhandedly looped my thumbs in my jean belt loops. Acid wash, because I was willing to try all the fashion fads while the 2000s still allowed atrocities like these pants to exist. It was weird to think that I was born in the 90s ('93, baby!), considering Rick Riordan's novels were timeless and I had always used to think they applied to the time period I had read the series, which was around a decade after the true publication date. "I'll miss you too, mom. But don't worry, I'll make sure to come back in one piece!"

Because those words hit a little too close to home for mom, she teared up even more and pulled me into another fierce hug.

Chiron and Grover behind me allowed for this interaction without a hint of awkwardness. I supposed they were delighted between this interaction of parent and child, knowing where the two worked. But when it was finally time to go and for Sally to head to work that morning, I finally picked up my familiar, ratty old yellow duffel bag, slung it over my shoulder, and waved a farewell. My facade was cool and level headed, but internally I was screaming with unbridled nerves and the panicked wonder at how I was even going to survive the rest of my youth. The last day of fifth grade had been yesterday, which meant that I had six more grade levels to go before I was forced to live in the adult world as a powerful target. Of course, there was the option of Camp Jupiter and the hidey hole for adult legacies, but I wanted that to be a last resort. The blaring, smelly streets of New York was my home, not some haven in the rolling, misty hills of California.

Mom watched me enter the ugly white and blue patterned Delphi's Strawberry and Co. van parked outside our apartment building, waving frantically all the while catching glimpses of my face in the shaded windows of the backseats. And then we were split apart for the rest of the summer, the honking of traffic ripping me back to reality.

"What?" I blinked, pinching the undersides of my forearms to settle myself.

Grover's lips minutely twitched downwards before repeating himself. "We're arriving just before lunch time, so you'll be sitting at the Hermes table."

After a small pause of deciding whether or not to just ignore all logical reasoning and sit at Poseidon's table because I like my space but not my head, I simply shrugged in response. "I don't think my godly parent is Hermes, but alright."

"N - No... No, it's not that," he stuttered, hands fluttering by his seatbelt. "Unassigned demigods always get sent to the Hermes cabin because he's the god of messengers and travelers and more."

We hadn't talked much at all about demigod related topics once the news hit that I had faced off with one of the Furies, instead opting for safe topics to discuss in public, like video games or gossiping about how weird our math teacher's sneezes were. Bless your heart, Mr. Fulmer.

"Am I supposed to already have learned how to fight, Chiron?" I raised my volume a tad for the centaur in the front to hear my voice. From the shotgun seat, he familiar rumpled beard peaked into view.

"Worry not, Mr. Jackson. Camp Half-blood will teach you everything you will need to know to survive."

"Wait, if you're not driving the van, then who is?" I blurted out, my momentary panic superseding my old memories. That said, a golden tan arm whipped out from the driver's seat and waved a hello before clenching back to the steering wheel. Little wisps of Mist residue circled around the numerous eyes dotting his forearm, the sky blue irises having been blinking eerily with a lazy pattern.

"His name's Argus," Grover whispered conspiratorially while scooting closer to me. "Remember chapter six in our Mythology textbook?"

No, not really. I wasn't smart enough to memorize exact chapters and pages, but for the sake of not wanting to talk about Argus while the hundred-eyed giant was right there in front of us, I nodded and let the conversation go.

The rest of the three hours were decidedly not unpleasant. Chiron and Argus played a mix of Bon Jovi and some kind of opera that sounded a little to intricate to actually be song lyrics (more like an archaic chant, but none of us started sprouting feathers nor leaves, so that was all good), while Grover and I shuffled through a dozen games of go fish and slapjack, betting on pieces of popcorn we found snuggled under the car seats. Naturally, Grover ate all the lint covered popcorn bits at the end of the rounds. I think he also ate one of the jokers, because we reshuffled the cards to only find fifty-one.

Three hours in, the roads turned bumpy and slow as we veered off the road and onto a sketchy dirt pathway.

I bounced up my seat, pressing my face against the cool glass windows. "Are we there yet?"

"Safe and sound," Grover breathed out in a high pitched tone. I settled myself back into a mature sitting position and glanced at his trembling features. Ah, right. His first demigod trip hadn't gone so well, had it now?

I cocked my head to the side, pursuing my lips for the sake of acting. "Do most other demigod escorts to camp go this safely?"

Grover swiped sweat away his forehead, the trembling now all but gone. "N - No... Not really. I guess we're lucky because Chiron is with us, but other demigods just get a satyr or two to sniff them out. You were especially strong, so I called in reinforcements."

Chiron twisted his head from the front to catch our attention. "Alright, boys, Argus and I need to examine some trouble in the forest. Grover will show you the way, just over the hill yonder."

My hands shook with giddiness as I unbuckled my seat belt and hopped out the van with my ugly yellow duffel bag, puffing my chest with pride at having reached it this far. Without the Minotaur event nor the drama of the Lightning bolt thievery yet, my first summer at Camp Half-Blood was going to be a decidedly normal affair, and not immediately embarking on a dangerous quest from the get-go. No siree! - I wanted to actually experience and enjoy the beauty of a summer camp, gods or no.

The van skirted away once the two of us hopped off, theatrically lumbering away into the thickets of the surrounding forestry.

"We've just got to pass that huge pine tree on top of the hill, and we'll be safe," Grover proclaimed, already stumbling up the grassy slope. I hadn't noticed him losing his crutches back in the van, but it seemed that he had decided to kick off his shoes and fake feet while I wasn't paying attention, because those were definitely some hooves underneath those cargo pants.

"Does the tree offer a barrier of sorts to the camp?" I questioned characteristically, jogging to keep up with his inborn quickness.

He bleated and nodded his head, his mouth forming into a grim line. But that was for another day, because we had reached the top of the hill and everything now appeared to be in slow motion. I counted steady beats in my head as my ratty grey sneakers passed by the hazy golden line flickering in and out of appearance - the Mist - and subconsciously held my breath before passing the rest of my body through.

When I let out an exhale, my eyes feasted on the lovely sights. Ahead were uniquely designed cabins shaped more like cottages or workplace buildings, forming a U shaped perimeter around the central boulevard of cobblestone lined gardens and a huge marble fountain. To the distance, I spotted a baby blue painted building, Corinthian era columns lining an amphitheater half the size of a Colosseum, and more delicately Ionic styled architectural pieces of beauty, all interconnected by grassy cobblestone and dirt paths. The woods and strawberry fields past everything slopped upwards like a pair of gentle cupping hands, holding and embracing the beauty of the historical yet modern camp in front of my eyes.

"Whoa," I gasped, unabashedly letting my jaw drop. "It's beautiful."

Grover nudged my ribs to keep walking and to pick my jaw off the ground. I obliged, not wanting my first impression on everyone else to think I was a wide-eyed greenie. I slayed Alecto the Fury, for gods' sake!

"Welcome to Camp Half-Blood, Percy. The summer term ends August twentieth, so you'll be staying here ten weeks, or three months. Normally, if you've been claimed, I'd let you put your stuff down in your cabin before the entire orientation tour, but I wouldn't leave your stuff out of sight when you're with the Hermes cabin kids. They've got a penchant for thievery or petty pranks."

Holding the bag while walking around camp - not wearing that hideous bright orange shirt, also - would strike me as an obvious newcomer. I didn't like the center of attention to focus on me, but I couldn't do too much about that. The official summer term started next week, anyway. I had decided to start early, mostly because the income of students would be hectic on my absent socialization ability. I twisted the crustacean earrings out of habit, feeling a rush of safety flow through my veins once in contact with Ms. Katerina's special gift. I now knew her to be under the sea's domain due to her godly gift, but I hadn't quite figured out which goddess or water creature she was. Maybe one of Triton's daughters if he had any? The entire weapon being a triton would pay homage to the merman god himself.

"Just peachy," I responded, and walked beside Grover down the hill and onto the first cobblestone pathway, starting at a marbled post and lintel gateway covered in ivy vines, complete with Ancient Greek carved into the whole ensemble. Curious heads popped up around the courtyard and cabin doors, watching me nervously smile through Grover's stammering introduction of the camp and the very specifics of each and every flower we passed by.

Of course, like all first days, came the hazing period.

"Yo, greenie! How's the weather down there?" Came a harsh voice emerging from a rust colored steampunk cabin Grover and I was passing by.

An obscenely tall girl who couldn't have been older than thirteen judging by the baby fat stored on her cheeks (but damn, those guns were huge!) stared down at me from the entrance of a cabin with a bright red number '5' displayed above the creaking door. Intimidating streaks of dark red and brown paint patterned the cabin that could only be the Ares cabin, highlighting the fierceness of the muscly girl with a buzzing seven foot tall spear strapped to her back. This could only be Clarisse La Rue. It took all my willpower to beam bright stars at the girl. Terrible attitude, yes, but an amazing warrior.

"It's fairly lovely down here at the five foot range, how about you?" I responded, ignoring Grover's hesitant hand hovering over my shoulder. He might've said something like 'look out' or 'ignore her,' but I paid him no mind.

Clarisse barked out an ugly laugh, signalling two similarly large Ares kids to emerge from her cabin. Fun times.

I slammed my bag into Grover's wobbling arms. "I trust you to hold onto this while I get fully initiated into camp. See ya later, Grover."

He mumbled something in response while I let the Ares goonies drag me away to where I assumed would be the public bathrooms. Poor Grover, I thought sympathetically. He was such a pure spirit. Hopefully he'd get reincarnated as his favorite peony or something in his next life.

"You're a weird kid," Clarisse snorted as I was willingly led into the girls' bathroom for a wonderful bout of head dunking. I beamed in response.

In the surprisingly stinky bathroom (weren't girls' bathrooms supposed to smell nicer?), Clarisse and her other Ares campers who I assumed were females, judging by their nonchalance at entering the female portion of the small building, barked orders at everyone in the area to clear out to make way for my initiation. A few toilets quickly flushed and some makeup palettes were clattered onto the floor as five girls rapidly darted out the bathroom, shrieking the very slightest.

"I don't think we've been introduced," I interrupted, tearing my arms away from their iron fisted grip to rest casually against a sink. Very slowly, I reached into my core and pulled gently on the brimming power finally able to be unleashed. The water nozzles gradually and softly shifted counterclockwise, allowing the smallest trickling stream of water to drip out. I held the water at the base of the sink, not wanting it to drain into the piping.

Clarisse smirked crookedly, hand propped on her hip. "My name's Clarisse La Rue, and I'm a daughter of Ares. Cabin Five hospitality, at your service, greenie."

Oh gods, she sounded like such a jerk as a pre-teen...

...This was going to be fun, though. "Percy Jackson, right back at you. I don't know my godly parentage, per se, but I do know my domain of specialty. I'm going to earn your respect in a fair fight, right here, right now."

And then all the fun was interrupted when a princess haired pre-teen blasted herself into the bathroom.

"Clarisse!" The newcomer growled, blonde curls bouncing behind her in anger. "I told you to stop hazing all the new demigods!"

A few tiny girls were hidden behind the older girl's body - the girls I recognized as the ones that were just recently haphazardly thrown out the bathroom. I waved a hello and they shrunk back even further.

Man. Kids these days.

The two Ares campers whose names were still undetermined sneered at the situation, and with nonverbal communication with Clarisse, they left the bathroom, ushering the other bystanders out of the way with more force than necessary.

"What's it to you, Princess?"

The blonde haired girl threw her arms up, and that was when I caught a flash of bronze from a long knife hooked up against a leather crossed belted sheaf by her side. "Ethical reasons! The majority of the campers are all afraid of you, and that's not good for moral support if legions are too terrified to look one of their generals in the eye."

Clarisse crossed her arms, revealing a multitude of rugged scars criss-crossing her bulging muscles. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

I cut in. "I think what she's trying to say is that it's better in the long term to earn your place as a higher authority through respect, and not fear. Fear causes people to desert or not perform as well on the field, while respect causes soldiers to strive to do their best for your sake."

Both girls stared me down, their expressions similar in intensity. It freaked me out a little, I had to say.

"Sorry, but I didn't catch your name," I placated. "My name's Percy Jackson and I'm from Manhattan."

"Annabeth Chase. San Francisco," she offered curtly, her cold grey eyes staring straight into my soul. Which had to have been pretty empty at the moment, because every single thing was wiped from my mind as soon as she told me her name.

Annabeth.

Annabeth Chase, in flesh. Daughter of Athena, one of the prophesied Seven, survivor of Tartarus, possibly the smartest girl alive. Well. In the future, that is. Also, is supposed to date me in the future and supposedly develops a crush on me starting from our first time meeting. As much as I loved the Percabeth ship, it sadly won't be able to happen in this world, since she was really not my type. As in, not my preferred gender.

Yeah, I was hella gay.

It appeared ADHD had kicked in after that moment, because suddenly I zoned out to come back to the point in conversation when Clarisse was gone and it was just Annabeth staring intimidatingly into my eyes.

I blinked. "Wait, what? Sorry, I blame ADHD for losing focus like that."

She scowled, her button nose wrinkling upwards. "I just said, 'we should probably leave the bathrooms, since you're not technically allowed in here anyway.'"

"Sorry about that," I offered, shrugging. "It's not like I could've just outran Clarisse and successfully hide from her initiation ceremony."

Her brows scrunched together in the cutest rage face I've ever witnessed as she lowly muttered, "I can't believe she's being nominated for cabin counselor for next year."

A deep, bellowing blare of a conch shell sounded in the air.

"Lunch time is starting, Percy. I'll lead you to the dining pavilion," Annabeth (oh gods, real and in flesh as an ickle fetus!) helpfully provided, gesturing down one of the cobbled paths once we were outside.

"Thanks. My tour guide was pushed aside somewhere when the Ares kids confronted me, so we never got to finish my orientation."

"Have you been claimed?" She asked, obvious interest piquing.

No, not yet. I mean, I knew my godly parentage but it wasn't like I could just outright tell her in such a standard conversation. "No, but I can speak to horses. If there's a god or goddess of horses hidden somewhere in Greek mythology."

Immediately, she stopped walking to veer her stormy grey eyes directly into my own sea-green ones for what seemed to be the third time today. "There is, but I sure hope he's not your godly parent. You shouldn't mention this ability to anyone else, except maybe Chiron or Mr. D."

We continued walking in an awkward silence, the whirring cogs and gears in Annabeth's head practically tangible. When we did reach the dining pavilion, the girl briskly pointed at the Hermes cabin before trotting away to join the rest of her siblings at table six. Unsteady, I sauntered over to table twelve to greet four kids already sitting there. When I sat down, a golden plate, matching cutlery, and a large empty glass shimmered into existence in front of me.

"Hey there, you must be the new kid everyone's talking about," started a handsome older teen with a wicked pale scar slashed over his face. "My name's Luke, and I'm the Hermes cabin counselor this year."

He reached over the table to offer his hand, and I shook it, gripping tight from nerves. Fuck, this guy was going to steal the lightning bolt sometime next year. And restore Kronos the Titan, and then kill said Titan.

He was also extremely hot, which did not help my pubescent emotions.

"I'm Percy Jackson," I introduced. "Unclaimed, sorry."

A chorus of groans erupted from the table. Luke offered a sympathetic smile before chiding his siblings. "Come on, guys. It's not like it's Percy's fault he's going to be rooming with us."

A boy with brown hair and leprechaun green eyes sitting at the far side of the table snarked back at the older teen. "Yeah, but our cabin's going to be crammed tighter than a tin of sardines when the summer camp session starts next week. Twelve beds, twenty-five kids last year, remember? Assuming no one died and I don't think anyone graduated, now it's twelve beds to twenty-six people."

This had to be one of the turning points of Luke's life that built up to him wanting to essentially destroy the world via raising Kronos from Tartarus. Oh dear.

The same boy turned his head to me with a belligerent sigh. "Sorry, newbie. I just like my breathing space. I don't mean anything against you."

"Although, we're probably going to prank you sometime this week," a boy identical to the first chimed in.

"That's Travis and Connor Stoll," Luke offered. "They're not twins, but they were born from the same mother by Hermes, which is kind of unique to think about."

I stared incredulously at the brothers. I had thought those two boys had been twins. What made Hermes want to follow up on their mother? "Is your mom a master thief or just an incredibly talented postal delivery woman?"

The full blooded brothers shared a secretive smile and refused to answer.

A cough echoed from the administrative table at the front of the pavilion, behind the large fire pit where offerings were made. A dumpy man wearing a bright pink and green Hawaiian button-down and pink cheeks stood up from the head chair.

"Alright, brats. Chiron's making me do an announcement today," the god groaned, swaying back and forth on his feet. "The woods are closed for the rest of today due to maintenance errors in the Hephaestus cabin's traps. Chiron and Argus and the Hephaestus cabin head is working on that. In the meantime, we've got a new member... ughh... Peter Johnson, somewhere in the crowd. Okay, you can go back to lunch."

Luke's smile was strained when he announced him to be the director of the camp to me. Also known as the god of wine and partying. "That's Mr. D for you," he chuckled. "Okay, and here's how meals work here..."

* * *

As my new camp counselor, I was required to follow Luke around for the rest of the day to get a hang of things before deciding my official schedule for the rest of the year (a scant seven days). Immediately after lunch, we headed to Monster Assault Techniques/General Mythology class from one to two p.m., and then two hours of a free choice, where canoe racing with the naiads was one of the options available (but Luke oversaw the rock climbing challenges, so I had to participate in burning the arms on my hairs off class), which then led to a training period, where kids were expected to train in combat and weaponry, but could also just go back to their cabin to work on actual school stuff or something of that nature.

Naturally, as Luke was undoubtedly the best at sword combat, he spent his time at the arena practicing and teaching the less experienced campers.

"Ready to pick a weapon?" He asked, lightly pushing me towards the huge variety of celestial bronze weapons on the rack at the back of the practice arena. "With your build and stature, I'd suggest a double edged sword, maybe a xiphos. If you grow to be tall and your shoulders wide enough, you could learn to use a spear or javelin."

He was a kick-ass teacher if he could already tell I was suited to a xiphos.

However, I felt that I wielded a trident much better than any sword, so I grabbed a heavy weight pure celestial bronze trident with a thick leather bound staff body. My arms strained under the weight, but there weren't any other tridents to choose from. I guess it was time to start building muscle.

Luke and a few other students in the arena stared carefully at my odd selection. "You sure you can handle that? I'd suggest a speed based weapon first, given that you're probably not even a hundred pounds yet."

It would be the smarter option to learn the art of the sword, since that was general knowledge everyone should be able to handle sooner than later, but I wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. I felt that perfecting the rare art of the trident would provide an edge over everyone else I chose to fight with. Unfortunately, that meant I would always be stuck as a mid-range fighter.

Ah, whatever. I could learn how to wield a sword if Chiron ever decided to give Anaklusmos to me. For now, my earrings were my go to weapon. "Yes," I declared, ignoring my burning biceps. "Hit me with everything you got."

Matches going on around us came to a standstill as we prepped for our first ever practice match. Luke felt that beginners ought to undergo a real combat spar before learning anything, in order to make us aware of everything we needed to know. Basically, we were sentenced to get brutally beaten down by a devilishly handsome seventeen year old with golden blonde hair and grass green eyes. It was wholly unfair.

He aided me in strapping up my armor, still raising an eyebrow at my choice in weaponry, with now a dozen spectators awaiting the match.

And like the morally flexible cheat I was, I dumped half a bottle of water on my mop of hair, feeling strength surge through my veins. Although still heavy as hell, the trident felt more manageable to hold.

"I guess this could be a lesson on choosing a weapon appropriate for your body stature," Luke shrugged, stepping into the match circle. "On the count of three, we're gonna start."

One.

Two...

Three!

At first, no one moved, Luke wisely sizing up my measurements and likely method of attack. Figuring he was too smart to initiate the first swing, I threw the trident in the air, flipping it twice to catch it perfectly at it's center of gravity midpoint of the pole, then thrust the prongs forward. The older teen dodged nimbly, bouncing around the jaunt.

"Whoa, that's pretty fast," he commented, then swung his longsword at the opening provided by the lateral movement, towards my right side. With unpracticed skill, my legs bounced up in a burst of forced momentum, spinning in the air to avoid the slice, then dropping down in a one handed roll, whipping the trident at an angle to allow the low ground.

Holy shit.

I tried not to let the surprise show on my face, carefully avoiding the bewildered faces of the growing crowd. This had to be at least half the current camp, I thought.

"You sure you're a newbie? 'Cause that's not a newbie move, Percy."

I offered a shrug to Luke. "I just... like tridents?"

A flicker of an unnamed emotion reached his eyes, but it disappeared from his face before I could discern what that emotion was. "This is going to be a fun match."

From then on, I was on the defensive, shielding vicious strikes by blocking with the pole, or entangling future stabs with the three prongs. I felt that there were times where either of us could deliver a winning blow, but they were all killing moves or painfully disabling jabs. As we weren't immediate enemies, it wasn't like I could just attempt to kill Luke to win a stupid match, but the spar was becoming more and more intense. As the minutes drew on, my arms and back and legs ached with over exertion from handling the weapon, and Luke's frustration at not hitting a clean winner against a newbie like me became outwardly visible.

At a pause in the game, with us cornered at opposing sides, I panted out, "Man, you're way too good at this."

Wordlessly, Luke gave a charming smile, and leaned forward for another attack. Needing a change in tactics, I allowed the sword to aim straight for me, angling the trident's prongs to catch the longsword for me to lean my weight into the clash to push upwards into the air, where I kicked Luke square in the chest plated sternum in a backflip ending. Unfortunately, my flexibility didn't support flipping in the air whilst holding a large weapon, so I was forced to drop it in order to land safely.

The crowd went wild.

At first, much to my own arrogance, I thought it was because I had managed to push Luke out of the ring from that kick, but it seemed as though he had only stumbled back to the very, very edge. Meanwhile, I was barely on my feet, my weapon halfway out of the ring, and panting harder than a dog on a freeway. The older teen whirled his sword with a fancy wrist flick before zooming to the center court, the tip of the weapon resting gently over my throat.

I raised both hands and slouched backwards. "I yield."

A bunch of people came over to thump our backs in the great match, even whooping a "Good job Percy!" somewhere. I picked up my trident, noticing it seemed to be ten times heavier now, and shook the courtesy hand shake with Luke, signalling that we ended the match on good terms.

"Too good," I laughed. "Luke Castellan is undoubtedly an amazing swordsman."

Said person goodnaturedly noogied my mop of inky black hair that had to be grossly dripping with sweat. "So are you, newbie. Welcome to Camp Half Blood."

* * *

**A/N:**

**I originally planned for this chapter to be 6k+ words, but I felt that this current ending is pretty good.**


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